


The Path

by NotRoman (Manniness)



Series: And Prove More Fierce [5]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Agron is not a happy camper, Agron: a man absent sense (DURO TELLS ALL!), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Burn baby burn, Canon Era, Dudes-in-distress and Damsels-in-distress: equal opportunity rescues happening, Duro POV, Duro’s job is to make sure nobody dies... unnecessarily, House slaves and gladiators cohabitate and YES THERE IS HELLA FRICTION, M/M, Nasir POV, Nasir makes the hard decisions, Nasir: the menace of Atella, Spartacus sticks to his ideals, Truth time: Varro lives... A LITTLE LONGER THAN IN CANON, We have not seen the last of Capua's arena... OR HAVE WE??, canon AU, first person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-03-28 14:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13905576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/NotRoman
Summary: Sequel to FugitivesNasir follows Spartacus' cause in defiance of Rome, yes, but for what aim does he fight?  Survival?  Vengeance? Freedom?  Nasir’s answer will guide his actions and test brotherly bonds as never before.WARNINGS: Basically, if you've seen the TV show, you know what kind of triggers to expect. (I feel that the Starz Spartacus series itself is "Explicit" and, since this fic is a Canon AU, I'm sticking with that rating.) HOWEVER, I will post warnings (such as DEATH, TORTURE, GORE (violent or medicinal), and SEXYTIMES) at the beginning of corresponding chapters. FYI, I have ZERO plans to describe Non-Con/NCS in detail.





	1. Breaking Words

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are again for the fifth installment of "And Prove More Fierce." I would love to hear what you're enjoying most about the series! (^_^)
> 
> Nasir's POV (seven chapters) & Duro's POV (one very long chapter)
> 
> This story picks up the day after "Fugitives" leaves off. If you haven't read "Fugitives," "The Arena," "The Brotherhood," and/or "The Recruit," I recommend doing so as I have not made any attempt for the individual fics to stand alone.

WARNINGS: ...sexytimes (not capitalized because, hey, Nasir is still totally injured, yeah?) 

 

 

Gladius.

The sounds of battle ricocheted off the villa walls, steel upon steel.  No wooden blades were used for these training exercises.  There were no guards, no iron bars, no whip.  The students would do better to learn the weight of a real sword and shield.  When they faced opponent, they would not fight for sport.

“Calius, raise elbow!” I called, lifting my own to the appropriate angle.

With a worried frown, he complied, wincing under Vitus’ blow upon shield.  Though Peirastes directed morning drills, somehow Calius had become my trainee.  That had not been my intention when I’d pressed a sword into his grasp and shown him to the yard.  But I could not hunt with Agron and Libo.  Nor assist Zaria with cleaning the bath -- last night’s gathering for food, drink, and stories had lasted until nearly midnight, capturing the attention of all and only the most necessary chores had been seen to.

When last I had looked, Naevia still worked beside Medicus, Crixus hovering nearby, and if I presented myself in the kitchen, I would surely be subjected to examination.  If not to satisfy Medicus’ curiosity, then for the sake of Naevia’s.  For all intents and purposes, she acted as the man’s apprentice.

So I found myself grumpily supervising halfhearted attempts at defending.  Calius’ blocks were so weak as to invoke a hot flush of mortification on his behalf.  But I would shout neither insult nor threat.  If the man could not find strength of purpose within himself in mock battle, it would not emerge were he face-to-face with a Roman soldier and his courage put to truest test.

“Change position!” Peirastes shouted and Calius dutifully began cringing through a series of memorized blows, tapping blade’s edge upon shield, which Vitus -- though far from skilled -- easily deflected.

Peirastes aimed an exasperated look in my direction.  I offered one of my own.  He called for a break and I sighed, accepting my charge.

“Calius!”  I waved him over and invited him to sit beside me, offering the jug of water at my side.

The sword clanged against the portico tiles between us.  He gulped three mouthfuls, panted and blinked, recovering.

With a shuddering breath, he murmured, “The weight is unlike anything I have ever held in grasp.”

I nodded in agreement.  “To match a purpose we’ve never been permitted to set hands to.”

“A purpose you desire?”

“With my entire being.”

He ducked his head.  Mumbled.  “I feel no such passion.”

His confession, shamefully given, was not a surprise.  I considered my response carefully.  Came to a decision.  Acted on it.

Between one heartbeat and then next, blade of abandoned sword rested at his throat, sharpened edge hissing against rapid pulse.  My grasp upon arm held him fast, trapping him upon brink of death.  “Do you hold passion for life?”

Eyes wide with shock, he nodded.  A dry swallow clicked in his throat.  “Yes.”

“Then fight for that, because that is what the Romans demand of you.   Though you may draw breath under their command, body is absent spirit, lingering as naught but twitching corpse.”

I lowered sword and returned it to him, pommel first.  After a moment’s hesitation, he took it.

“Put forth all effort to gain skill in this,” I urged him, “even if you seek to defend only your own life.”  Denying Rome merely that much stood a victory.

Calius frowned.  “Yet you believe there stands some greater purpose?”

I opened mouth to speak, but stayed the blunt confirmation that rose in immediate response.  “There is no fault in valuing your next breath above all else.”

“You do not.”

I shook my head.  “My life is coin I would exchange for--”  Here I hesitated.  What would I die for?  “--choice,” I decided.  “Freedom of choice.”

“I have never known such a thing.”

With a shrug, I imagined: “If you find that it suits you, you and I may one day stand side by side on the battlefield.  As brothers.”

“Brothers,” he mused, tasting the concept.  Then he surprised me: “You assign value to your life and accept that it stands as less than something else.  Is this not what it means to be a slave?  To serve some greater purpose?”

My response was automatic: “It is different.”

Calius’ eyes narrowed.  “You lie with a gladiator, offer flesh for protection.  How is that separate from the demands of Dominus?”

“You misunderstand.”  And, with a jolt, I realized that he was not the first.  Zaria had expressed a tangent concern.  “I lie with Agron by choice.  We care for each other.  We fight side by side.  We would each die for the other’s sake.  How is that the same as the acts of a dominus?  How often did you witness Marius discard one man and purchase another to replace the ill and incompetent?  Or order death to minimize inconvenience or embarrassment?”

“Such is his right.”

“By whose decree?”

“The gods will it.”

“If that is so, then would not Marius yet live?” I challenged.  “I captured him.  Naevia carved him with blade.  Crixus choked the life from him.  Agron threw his body to the beasts.  How are all of us still standing if we have so defied the gods?”

Calius appeared braced for the heavens to open up with a roll of thunder and Jupiter himself strike me dead.

I continued, “What of the lanista Batiatus and the noble Romans present at his ludus?  All dead, yet we remain.  Why would the gods allow us success and escape?”

Calius did not offer reply, but I was content to speak as thoughts rose to the fore, following my own musings.  “If one dominus is unworthy of the gods’ favor, then there stand others as well.  We would take those lives.”

“It is Rome itself, then, that will mete out punishment,” the man whispered, no less fearful than when he’d spoken of the gods.

“If I fall, it will be at the blade of a Roman soldier.  A man, not a god.  A man can be fought.  That is our battle.  One Roman at a time.”

Calius turned the blade over in his grasp, watching the play of light.  I said no more until Peirastes called for training to resume.

As Calius stood, I spoke: “Apologies.”

He frowned in question.

“I had no right to lay hand upon you absent your consent.”

He startled.  Blinked.  Stiffened.

My lips quirked.  “Should it happen again, give appropriate fucking response.”

With burgeoning smile, Calius took his place with some eagerness and put mind to purpose: stronger blows, determined blocks, firm steps. 

The sound of footstep upon tile at my back.  I turned and Agron lowered himself to portico’s edge, taking a seat close enough to nudge my shoulder into nook of arm and torso.  He mused, “You and Spartacus.  You break words as Jupiter directs lightning.”

“May they strike intended target.”  I bumped his side with my elbow.  “The hunt?”

He shrugged.  “The snares yielded well enough.”

Hence his early return… and an opportunity to ask: “You’ve broken no words on the days I was absent from ludus.”

Last night, Crixus had told of events in the city: their attack on a Capua whorehouse to confront the slaver Trebius -- “The same fuck who sold Duro and I to Batiatus,” Agron had muttered darkly -- and obtain word of Naevia’s fate.  She had been taken south but to which villas he had not learned before the slaver had expired from his injuries.

Fortunately, Agron and Duro had announced themselves at the cisterns the morning after.  Just in time to accompany Crixus in foiling Spartacus’ mad plan to kill Glaber -- recently promoted to fucking praetor! -- at town gathering amid many Roman soldiers and Lucretia, who yet lived.  The sight of her and the confusion of battle breaking out in the street had stirred the crowd to panicked fervor, allowing Agron, Duro, and Crixus to drag Spartacus to the nearest cistern entrance and make escape.

By the fucking gods.

Spartacus’ thirst for revenge would drown him yet.

And leave the rest of us floundering in rough wake.

Agron exhaled noisily.  “There is not much to tell of Batiatus’ final days.  You already know of Spartacus’ intent.  Crixus stood with Doctore, who had been offered freedom and position of lanista by Batiatus, newly promoted to public office.”

I paused.  “This did not sway you from purpose?”

His lips twitched downward into a moue.  “Even had I known of it at the time, no.”

Of course not.  Batiatus would have yet been our dominus and Glaber our commander.  And I would still have been sent to die in the arena.

I drew a breath.  “Yet Spartacus and Crixus no longer stand at cross purposes?”

“They came to an accord the afternoon before they were set to fight: each swore to see the other’s quest to completion.”

I snorted.  “Oh, yes.  Such a small thing to bother mentioning.”

Agron gave me a sour look.  Indeed, those two days had been difficult.  Not only for me.  Yet again Agron had been left to wonder about my fate.

He continued, “Batiatus ordered Crixus’ food and drink corrupted before the fight.  Mira found opportunity to work in the yard and break words on this with Spartacus.  During the match, as we all stood shackled at cliff’s edge to bear witness, Crixus began to falter.”  Agron shrugged a shoulder.  “I do not know the deciding moment, only that he offered shield to aid Spartacus -- his leap to balcony with sword in hand and Crixus’ battle cry set all to purpose.”

My heart thrummed with belated panic.  “Were you not still locked within the ludus?”

Agron shook his head.  “Mira, again.  She saw the guard to the afterlife and the gate opened.”

“Such a woman.  Spartacus is fortunate.”

My lover shifted suddenly, jostling me.  I sent him a questioning glance.  “You never gave reply,” he said, looking at me with a startled, wondering air.  “On preference of cock or cunt.”

I could feel my brows drift upward in amazement.  “If my preference for your cock has been unclear, sincerest apologies.”

Color rose to his cheeks even as his eyes narrowed.  “Again, you evade.”

With a huff, I admitted, “I have never held a clear preference for one over the other until I met a gladiator-in-training from the lands east of the Rhine.”

Hunching down, Agron met my gaze, level.  “Truly?”

Given the warm welcome I’d provided him late last night upon our pallet -- his lips upon my neck, his bare chest pressed to my back, his cock sliding between my thighs as hips rocked slowly and his hands coaxed a shallow burn from my skin -- how could he question my desire?  Yes, my cock remained stubbornly somnolent, but my will was quite enthusiastic.  Even more eager than his, apparently, for he’d softened and drifted into slumber absent release.

Agron lifted hand to my jaw, whispered: “You seek no other confirmation?”

Confirmation of what?

Oh.

Fuck the gods!

My jaw clenched.  “Tread carefully lest I seek none at all.”

Twitching free of his grasp, I focused on Calius.  Scowled as the man stumbled awkwardly.  “Forethought, Calius!  Step with intent!”

The man’s gaze remained upon his opponent though he nodded to indicate he had heard instruction.

For a long moment, silence buzzed upon the portico.

Agron cleared his throat.  “I--apologies.”  His voice was gruff and he fumbled words: “I do not -- fuck! -- I meant no offense.”

With a sidelong look, I caught the flex of his jaw muscles.

“I only…”  He shook his head, bemused.  My response had genuinely confused him.  “How can a man not wish to explore the boundaries of freedom?”

Ah.  I now had a vague notion as to the cause of our discord: “I have never been permitted to refuse intimate touch.  That is my freedom.”

His mouth tightened.  He looked away.  “I have forced unwanted attentions, then.”

I grabbed his arm, digging hard into the muscle.  “Open ears and listen!”

He stilled.

“Your attentions,” I hissed, “stand as the greatest joy of my life.  I fought daily upon the sands, I fought each match in the arena, I fought every fucking Roman who would command me -- I fought all for the sake of receiving your touch again.”

He gasped, jerked bodily, dared to meet my furious gaze.

“Do not doubt,” I scolded, irritated beyond measure that he would believe I resigned myself to suffering undesired contact.  From anyone.  “I am free to refuse all attentions except for those of my choosing.”

His lips trembled and slipped into a slow smile.  “So you are -- free.  And you have -- refused.”

Ah, yes.  I had.  In the baths many weeks ago, I had guided his grasp away from my hips.  Made request that he not grip my flesh tightly.  All this time, he had heeded my wishes.

I tested: “And have I expressed displeasure or lack of satisfaction?”

He shook his head.

Considering the glow of desire in his gaze, I wondered: “Would you have me demand more of you?”

He nodded.

I slid hand against stubbled cheek and caressed his jaw, guiding his mouth to mine, my lips already parted with hunger, anticipating his taste.  Ah, yes.  This.  The slow surge of tongue.  The softness of lips.  The prickle of scruff.  Heat flashed over skin, stirring cock.  Ah, fuck.

I chased the sensation, but it slipped from grasp like a passing breeze.  Drawing back, I spoke against his lips, “I will heal… and make many demands.”

A shudder rippled down his spine in the wake of my fingertips.  Nipples peaked and flesh taut with arousal, he stared into my eyes.  Pale green in these surroundings.  Naked with desire.

He ducked down and bit my lower lip, a sharp promise, a brief capitulation.  “I await.”

Indeed he did.

Unfortunately, Calius would not.  He cried out as Vitus’ swing nearly sliced nose from face.  “Raise shield!” I bellowed.

Agron’s laughter was muffled in my tangled hair.  To his credit, he did not comment on its neglect.  Naevia had washed it for me once during his absence.  With the wound in my side, it was difficult to lift the corresponding arm.  And Medicus nattered at me constantly not to corrupt the wound.

That afternoon, after Agron and Peirastes finished their own training -- drills and sparring -- and the recruits were tasked with cleaning the smaller rooms ringing villa’s atrium, Agron invited me to the bath with a grin and nod.

He disrobed completely and I could not bring myself to summon even token irritation at my lack of autonomy with basic hygiene.  I had managed to keep much of myself clean with use of strigil and oil, but it was painful and exhausting even with partial assistance from Naevia or Medicus.

Agron set himself to task with a smile and, to my surprise, used opportunity to teach me some of the words from his homeland.

“Out of curiosity,” I asked from prone position upon bath’s raised ledge as his nails scrubbed and scratched at my scalp between rinsings, “what words are spoken for ‘shit-eating swine cunt’?”

Agron laughed, kissed my shoulder, and taught me whatever I wished to know.

As we dried off and dressed, I claimed opportunity not to ask more of him, but to pay compliment.  “Spartacus entrusts you to see all prepared for the move to Vesuvius,” I dared quietly.  “And missions to Neapolis to soon follow.”

His smile deepened, showing that confidence again.  “Yes.”

I reached for his hand.  Our fingers laced, tightened.  “You will yet make a revolution out of one man’s quest for vengeance.”

“I will.   _ ** **We****_  will.”  There was no mistaking Agron’s pride and eagerness.  “If the gods show fucking favor.”

Chuckling, I drew his face close and murmured against his grin: “Fuck the gods.”

He laughed, delighted.

With a grin to match, I pulled him from the baths and into the garden to cool our steam-heated skin.  Naevia and Zaria ducked into the room behind us and I felt a brief flash of guilt for keeping them waiting.

But it was early in the day yet.

“Nasir!”

I turned at the call, surprised to see Crixus standing on the surrounding pathway.

“I would have words,” he said, his brows tilted with inquiry.

Casting no gaze upon Agron, I nodded.  I did not require his permission or support to speak with the Gaul, though I did pat my lover’s arm in passing to indicate that he was neither forgotten nor ignored.

Attaining the pathway, I walked with the champion.  When he made no comment, I offered, “Naevia’s smile is a most welcome sight.”

Crixus drew up and I paused beside him.  “Gratitude, Nasir.”

I shook my head.  “Happy coincidence--”

“No.  Agron spoke of your plan to overtake the wagon.  Naevia told you taught her to use a knife.  Medicus says you encouraged friendship between her and the slave girl Zaria.  You have shown my woman much kindness.  Yet I have shown you none.”

“Untrue,” I replied.  “When concern for Duro’s injury overwhelmed and sense deserted me at the arena, your words calmed.  That stands as no small kindness.”

Crixus’ lips twitched into a wry smile.  “You are too easily satisfied.”

“I would not seek to measure favors upon the scales.  We are of the Brotherhood.”  For me, that was enough.

The former champion offered his arm in friendship.  “I would like to one day see Ashur crushed beneath such honor.”

Recalling our first conversation, I grinned with mock skepticism.  “He will fall to honor?”

Crixus nodded.  “The fuck will not expect it.”

I grasped his forearm and we shook.

The Gaul mumbled something to the effect of seeking Peirastes for a brief match before bathing and we parted ways.  I easily found Agron upon our pallet and grinned at the sight of his outstretched hand.  I took it and he laid me down beside him.  My hands groped over his bare chest and shoulders.

“Our efforts for Naevia’s sake have made a friend from an angry bear.”  I could barely believe it.

Agron giggled.  “You have pulled thorn from paw.”

“Yet you two reached an accord before he set eyes on Naevia.”  What had caused the man to place trust in a rival?

Green eyes -- yes, they were green against the backdrop of tall grass and late afternoon light -- focused upon my inquisitive gaze, reading the questions therein.  “Spartacus,” Agron explained.  “We fetched the fool together and tore him away from path that would have seen him to the afterlife alongside Glaber.”

Ah, yes.  Sharing good sense in the face of madness would aid such a bond.  I shuddered to think of Rome’s response had Spartacus succeeded: we would be hunted by an entire army and, with our numbers yet so few, we would be crushed.  Crucified.  The thought of Agron upon the cross--gods, no.  No.

“And also,” Agron continued slowly, his gaze now following meandering fingertips as he traced patterns only he could see upon my chest, “I had left you to seek him out.  I had left my heart with his Naevia.  No easy task.”

“A necessary one,” I allowed.  I was grateful for having been unconscious for much of the journey here.  That final day upon jostling, bumping, lurching bench -- even with layers of pallets beneath me to act as cushion -- had been torment.  The journey back to Capua would have wrecked me utterly for any use at all.  But that did not mean I wouldn’t have insisted on accompanying him if his resolve had wavered in the slightest.

Agron shook his head slowly.  “Necessary -- and all the more difficult for it.”

His lips rediscovered mine with a soft touch.  Heat washed over me, pebbling flesh, and he groaned quietly in approval, quickly chasing the blush of arousal over my skin.  I hissed through gritted teeth as fingertips now traced the line of my swelling cock through subligaria.  I had taken to wearing altered, knee-length trousers in recent days, but I could not argue the convenience of a simple cloth wrap at times like these.

The fabric slouched and my hands gripped his shoulders hard as his warm touch sloughed the garment from my form.  His kiss -- hot and hungry, lips and tongue so thorough upon and in my mouth -- promised more delights.  My fingers speared through his short hair as he sucked a slow trail from the corner of jaw, along column of neck, across chest, over belly -- a pause at hipbone and his hands smoothed my legs open wide enough to embrace his powerful shoulders.

And then wet kisses, wetter tongue, tingling and slick upon shyly hardening cock.  His gaze upon my face as my senses fled.  His hands wedged between his own rough-bristled cheeks and my soft flesh, but I would have the burn.  I would feel him in all ways.  I would feel him.  Always.

I grabbed for his hands, pushing one deeper between my thighs and the other up to support my left knee, easing the pull of wound.  Ah… fuck.  Such joy.  How could I not smile with it?  Sigh with laughter.

He hummed a question against my half-hard cock and I petted his scalp, scratched lightly with nails.  He shivered between my thighs.  Another hum of inquiry vibrated against my flesh.  How could I answer?  It made no sense to say he felt beautiful -- magnificent -- upon my skin.  His mouth tugged at me and I gasped, heat flaring momentarily brilliant.

And then, like the tide, it withdrew.  His tongue was tireless, but my flesh proved more stubborn.  I gently pulled him off and coaxed his mouth to mine.  A curiously different taste greeted my tongue than what I had grown accustomed to -- lacking in seed yet tinged with sweat and anticipation -- and I explored it thoroughly as he crouched above me, large and heavy but allowing only the pleasurable brush of skin between us.

My hands smoothed over hot flesh to his subligaria, fingers dipping along the waist to traverse the lay of hard muscle.  He shifted to move away.  I tightened my grip.

“You would refuse me this?”

His thumbs brushed the side of neck.  “I take as much pleasure as you.  No more, no less.”

“Then allow me this pleasure.”  I tugged the fabric loose.

His breath stuttered.  “Only if it pleases you.”

I blinked, stared into his flushed face.  His eyes were darker now, nearly gray in the slowly gathering shadows, and his lips swollen from tending to me so ardently and I realized -- this.  This is what he had been trying to tell me time and time again: **_**“** **Only if it pleases you.”**_**

This man gave his all to me.  I could ask him about his past lovers and lessons imparted, but this I suspected stood apart.  This was not a thing learned.  This was Agron.  His heart.  His true measure.

My splayed hands caressed over his ass, pushing the wrap down his thighs.  “You please me.  Just you.”

He moaned and, when I gathered him into my hands, his forehead descended to my neck.  Helplessly trusting and overwhelmed, his big body endlessly seeking another moment of touch.  Hot breaths and quick, senseless nibbles on my skin.  I pressed kisses, teasing and ardent in turns, against his face, neck, shoulders, arms, whatever flesh I could reach as he surged into my hands.

One day, I would have him in my body.  I would open myself to him.  Trust him.  Take pleasure from him.

Ah, fuck.  The thought alone -- I gasped from the heat, but it evaporated in a moment.

Agron leaned back far enough to meet my gaze, cup my face in his hands.  The movements of his body slowed.

“No.  You are yet…” I began.  Protested.  Molded my fingers around him in explanation.

“I would wait,” he insisted and I throbbed with guilt.

“Do not deny yourself.”

“I do not share my body’s desires in this,” he stated with surprising eloquence.  His hips stilled and I was tempted to test his resolve.  I could provide him with release, insist on it, but the act would be against his wishes.  Agron would never impose his will upon me while we lay together.  I was ashamed of myself for considering such a violation.

My hands left his hard, damp flesh to follow the line of his back upward, inviting him into close embrace.  He accepted, settling at my side and tucking my shoulder against his chest.  He nuzzled my damp hair and his cock pressed against my hip, but when he exhaled his entire being was content.

What had I done in my life to deserve such a man?

“Do I dream you?” I whispered and his smile speared my heart.

“No more than I dream you.”

Such a terrifying thought.  I would rather die than wake.  My fingers tightened upon his cheeks and he curled himself close.  This did not stand as the first night he had held me together and I was certain it would not be the last.

 


	2. The Liberated Arrive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: mentions of Gross Gore (decomposition), sexytimes (of course), attempted NCS (not graphic)
> 
> Regarding the attempted NCS... may I draw your attention to this fic's tag: House slaves and gladiators cohabitate and YES THERE IS HELLA FRICTION

 

Daybreak.

Hope for a new day and all it might bring.  Even when obscured by clouds or drowned by rain, day broke in steady silence.

Many things occurred in silence.  The passing of time.  The healing of wounds.  Naevia’s smiles.  Lysandros’ growing confidence.  Calius’ increasing determination -- and I could not pretend a lack of pride in Calius having earned a place among the recruits.  But most surprisingly, the sight of Zaria seating herself beside Peirastes upon the portico.  They broke no words as the light of day swept over the villa, rousing all to purpose.

I withdrew absent sound.  My errand would wait.

In the kitchen, I found Pyrrhus, Vitus, Lysandros, and Calius slurping through their portions of gruel.  Agron nodded toward the empty space at his side where a full bowl and clean spoon awaited.  I lowered myself to the bench, nodded once at Crixus.  Naevia and Medicus were working with herbs, mortar, and pestle at the long counter.  Libo arrived via the side entrance and I finally understood why he had recently taken to coming the long way around from his bed in the stables to claim morning meal.

When Peirastes entered and retrieved a serving for himself and one other, all four trainees pointedly turned their attention toward their food.  The former gladiator left again, bowl-and-spoon in each hand, just as he’d done for the past three mornings.

Agron nudged my arm.  Quirked a brow.  “You intend to meddle.”

I scoffed.  “Meddle.  I am no fucking washer woman.”

“A task you might yet set hands to,” Libo teased.  “Tack and armor gleam from your efforts.”

Agron grinned.

I glowered.  Two weeks past and fucking sword wound yet prevented me from accomplishing anything remotely strenuous.  “Cast fucking look away from me,” I growled.

Lysandros chuckled.  I pointed my spoon at him in warning.  I outranked him and he knew it.  He ducked his head with a smile.

I waited until morning drills had been called and both Medicus and Libo had left on the excuse of putting the horses to pasture and checking the snares.  Only then did I approach Zaria and Naevia.  I lent hands as they washed bowls, spoons, and pot, carefully considering Zaria’s expression.  She did not seem distressed.  In fact, there was something of a smile playing at her lips.

Naevia teased: “Our brother Nasir has finally looked past his own lover and taken note of your new companion.”

Zaria blushed.  As did I.  I had been undeniably oblivious.  However, I would not waste opportunity.  “Does Peirastes press unwelcome advances?”

“No,” she answered softly, blush deepening.  “He makes no advances at all.  We merely share company.”

Naevia bumped her arm.  “Would you have it be more?”

Zaria affected a shrug.

I recognized feigned nonchalance.  I had worn it for all of a week, if that long, before Agron’s gentle touches and attentive gaze had coaxed hope from my clenched heart.  I dared to press palm to Zaria’s shoulder, feather-light.  “I stand as your brother,” I reminded her.

I was hesitant to promise Agron’s support, but Naevia easily insisted, “Neither Agron nor Crixus would remain idle at threat of injury to you.”

Zaria ducked her head.  “Gratitude.”

“May it never be required,” I wished fervently, “but should occasion arise, I would have you take pride in the accomplishments of your own hands.  Come,” I entreated.  “Let us set kitchen to rights and continue training.”

Naevia was eager enough that she insisted I wait in the yard while she and Zaria returned the washed bowls and spoons to proper place.  When they rejoined me out of doors, knives belted at waist, I directed them through drills.  It felt good to move from one familiar form to the other even if my left side was yet hindered.

I was speaking and gesturing them through a halting sparring match using sheathed blades when Agron and Crixus discovered our gathering.  Crixus readily offered himself for demonstration with Naevia and Agron faced Zaria.

“Apologies,” she murmured, “if I cause injury.”

Agron chuckled.  “If I allow it, then it is deserved.”

“Indeed,” I agreed.  “I willingly relinquish my place on Medicus’ fucking table.”

Agron had never taught me how to fight with a knife, so I heeded his instruction as ardently as Zaria, toes twitching as my gaze followed every step, chest tensing at each dodge, arms flexing in time with lunge.

When they paused for water, I praised Zaria and then quietly accused Agron: “You stole my charge.”

His smile faded.  “Apologies.”

I shrugged.  He stood the better instructor and he had the time for it.  My uselessness was no one’s fault but my own.  I rallied: “I would see you train with Crixus lest I best you too easily when I return to battle.”

With a soft laugh, he shook his head and ducked down for an even softer kiss.  “Then I must ensure I present proper challenge.”

Crixus whapped him on the ass with flat of blade.  “Come, pup.  Let us see if you recall anything beyond victories of cock and ass.”

“Close fucking mouth, you shit-eating Gaul,” Agron returned absent heat.  “Lest Naevia press inquiry toward your interest in my ass.”

I grinned.  “A thing of concern to me as well.”

Chuckles and giggles.  The sharp punctuation of swordplay.  Midday meal saw the audience grow as Naevia and Zaria took rest and Peirastes allowed the recruits to claim their portions.  Crixus and Agron yet traded blows and idle insults.  Interestingly, Peirastes placed himself between Zaria and the combatants, watching with critical eye and tensing when one man or both drew close.

I had not broken many words with Peirastes, but Zaria glowed in his presence.  Even Calius seemed to have found some measure of ease under the gladiator’s instruction.  When I had first noted Zaria’s nervous reaction to Duro’s friendly overtures and then witnessed Calius’ obvious fear of Agron, I had seen a reflection of myself, locked in ludus cage with strange, barbarian brothers.  I could not assume that most house slaves -- if any -- would possess the confidence to face these large, capable men on equal footing.  Still, if Zaria and Calius were any indication, perhaps the merger of these opposing forces would not be so rough.

Just before evening, a knock came upon the gate followed by a jovial shout that both Agron and I had been awaiting.  We hurried into the yard and threw open the doors.  Duro, dressed as a Roman soldier, grinned his way into his brothers’ arms.  Donar and Lydon accompanied him and, complaining of empty bellies, they both made for the kitchen.  Though, perhaps that did not stand their sole motivation.  Duro was… rank.

He dared to laugh at the face I made in response to his smell.  “I killed many Romans!” he declared.  “More than that shit Donar!”

“You felled them by stink alone?” Agron guessed and Duro punched him in the arm.

“Or perhaps the pup rolled among their fragrant, decaying corpses?” I coughed out, eyes watering.

Duro palmed the top of my head.  Infuriating puke.  “Ha!  I have missed your jests, little man.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”  I crunched his toes beneath heel.

He yelped.  Agron laughed and hauled him toward the bath.  Duro grabbed my arm in sudden urgency.  “Marius!” he blurted.  “Apologies, brothers.  The fuck has escaped justice.”  At the sight of his inward-turned rage at perceived failure, my irritation evaporated.

Agron smirked and I felt my lips curl.  “He did not,” Agron informed Duro, “escape Nasir.”

He whipped around.  Blinked at me.  “You--what--fucking--with a fucking sword wound?”

I rolled my eyes.  “Close fucking mouth lest Medicus seize opportunity for additional lecture!”

Duro giggled.  “I would hear all,” he declared, “but first I would have fucking bath.  Neither of you have spent half a day reeking of dead goat’s ass.”

“How did you come to pass through one of those?” I wondered.  “Did Rhaskos swallow you down gullet in one gulp and shit you out?”

“Ha, ha.  Such fucking wit.”

Agron grinned and shoved his brother into the bathroom.  “I enjoyed it.”

“As there is nothing of Nasir’s that you do not enjoy, your words are fucking worthless.”

I inquired to Agron, “Do you think -- were we to hurl him over Rome’s gates -- the city would concede defeat in one day or two?”

Agron snorted.  “How long does it take to draw breath?”

“Nagging cunts,” Duro grumbled.  Agron doused him with a bucket of water.  I fetched a strigil and oil.  Eventually, the source of stench was confessed: apparently, Duro had managed to trip and fall into a hollow of corpses while scouting the surrounding woods before making final approach to villa.

“To the west?” Agron checked.

“That is your fucking mess, then?”

“No, mine,” I admitted.

Duro grew very quiet.  “There were no less than four bodies in that ditch.”

“Six,” Agron corrected.

My brows hitched.  “You sprinkled what was left of Marius elsewhere?”

“May his cock be put to grass as bird shit, yes.”

Duro demanded the complete tale, interrupting with characteristic squawks to challenge my claims, digging for every detail: when Marius had arrived, yes, I had hidden the four of us upon roof as instructed; and yes, I had swung down from eaves absent aid and in silence to kill, one after another, with sword-through-back and knife-to-throat the three armed men who patrolled night watch; and again, yes, I had slain all six guards absent even one of them raising a weapon to me.

“Fuck a fucking goat.”

I turned to Agron, who was looking at me like an enraged bear on the verge of attack.  Undeterred, I asked, “Did your brother leave behind many goats east of the Rhine?  He bleats of them often.”

“Talk of goats will not distract from fucking words,” he gritted out.

I suspected the source of his ire: I had neglected to offer _****every****_  detail regarding my methods of attack when we had all gathered ‘round kitchen table to exchange stories.  In truth, much had seemed of less importance in comparison to the overwhelming wash of news regarding Spartacus’ movements and Glaber’s return to Capua.  Regardless, Agron had been provided enough of an account to form _****some****_  assumptions!  And if not by his own reasoning, then surely a careless remark from one of my companions would have illuminated him.

Crossing arms tightly, I mockingly retorted, “Medicus did not tell the manner in which I launched attack on the first three guards?  Or how I used ladder to rooftop, then descended it into garden’s grass, approached the sleeping place of the three others, and hacked their throats as they slumbered?”

Duro gulped.

Agron growled, “No.”

Well.  Medicus was a man of sound sense of self-preservation.  Admitting to every detail would have brought forth the German ire he dearly wished to avoid.

“Three in their sleep?” Duro checked.

“No.”  I corrected: “Two in their sleep.  The third woke and took blade in chest.”

My lover dodged around Duro’s mostly-clean bulk.  “Reveal fucking wound.  Now.”

“Days past?” I sneered, clamping my left forearm over the ever-present fucking bandage.

“Yes.  I would lay fucking eyes on it.”

Stubborn fuck.  “Medicus has seen it daily and will report that no stitches were torn.”

Agron’s hands dropped to his sides.

“Out of curiosity, how did you think I killed them?”

He cast gaze skyward.  Lifted his arms in a gesture of helplessness.  “Not with leap from fucking roof!”

“Oh?  Perhaps Medicus launched me over fucking wall into villa’s yard, then?”

Agron ground his teeth.

I seethed.

Duro stepped between us and clapped a hand on each of our shoulders.  “I have missed you stupid shits.”

“And I have missed peace and quiet away from this obnoxious pup,” Donar declared, leaning around the open doorway.

Lydon smirked.  “Let us hope he smells better and not the two of you worse.”

Duro waved them away.  “Be gone.  Spartacus and the others await.”

“How many others?” I inquired and he answered.  The number was staggering.  They must have liberated every villa between here and Capua!  I left Agron to finish assisting Duro and hurried toward the kitchen.  All four trainees, Naevia, Zaria, and Medicus were already preparing dinner.

Libo was likely making the stables ready.  “Crixus and Peirastes?” I checked.

“Both accompany Donar and Lydon,” Naevia answered, and I set to work.

We did not have enough pots and bowls to feed everyone at once, but with modest portions of cured meat, we could manage to see every belly filled in perhaps three rotations.

It would be a long night.

“Come, brother,” Duro invited as Agron nudged me away from the lentils I was washing.  “Spartacus arrives with those from Marius’ villa.  Chadara and Tilius have asked about you.”  He added dryly, “Absent pause.”

I smiled.  It would be good to see them again.  “Calius!” I called.  “Will you come greet them?”

He would and promptly abandoned the simmering stew pot to Zaria who had just added a measure of garlic to the barley gruel.  Agron and Duro stood on the portico, but I went to the gate with Calius just in time to grasp arms with Spartacus and Rabanus.  Calius and I directed the wagons -- six of them! -- around the side of the house.  A flurry of introductions -- Camilla and Mira -- and then familiar faces converged upon us.  Chadara and Tilius, both relieved to see me standing on my own two feet and very impressed with Calius’ proud posture.

“You think yourself a warrior now,” Chadara teased, pinching Calius’ bicep, “like this one here?”  She nodded to me.

I huffed.  She could tease all she liked.  It did not change the fact that I had survived the arena twice and slain over a dozen Romans since.

Calius brushed her hand away.  “I happily offer demonstration on the morrow when we resume training.”

My smile was so wide, it was a wonder my face did not split in two.

Chadara considered me with an evaluating gaze.  “Duro speaks of you as a brother.”

My brows hitched.  “As well he ought.  Otherwise I would be most displeased.”  To this, she offered no further comment.

I pointed them toward the kitchen, but I lingered at the gate to return curious glances and offer my name: “I am called Nasir.  You are welcome and safe here.  Take food and rest.”

Again and again, I spoke those words to strangers whose necks still bore the faint markings where a collar had once rested.  Once the last group of stragglers received my greeting and entered the yard, I found Duro grinning at me from opposite.  We swung the wooden doors shut and latched them.

“Explain your mad smile, German.”

He snickered.  “You are legend: the Syrian Nasir of Capua’s arena.”

Wryly, I acknowledged, “The sight of me no doubt disappoints.”

“Not to those who count closest.”

At times, Duro could be almost sagely.

He continued, “It amuses without end that my brother’s cock hardens at mere sight of you.”  He gleefully rubbed his hands together.  “I’ve been waiting many years to bring the shit low with embarrassment!”

Then again, Duro’s moments of compassion and wisdom were more often than not balanced by unashamed crassness.

Wagons were unloaded.  Camilla delegated the charge of laying out beds.  Mira oversaw additional cook pots set upon flame and bowls distributed.  I pulled Moritus aside and asked him to select a team to manage the bath.  With only one modest-sized room and dozens upon dozens of bodies in need of using it at least once every few days at minimum, chaos could all too easily ensue.

One thing was certain, nights of quiet respite in private alcove were at an end.  Until all were rested and ready to set foot toward Vesuvius, Agron and I would share a pallet for rest and little else.  Frustrating, yes, but I recalled those final days in the ludus under the malevolent watch of Glaber’s soldiers.  Fuck, I would kill the praetor myself for denying me Agron’s touch for so long.

So, that night, after Crixus had hollered at the Gauls to cease their fucking warbling and take rest, I snuggled against Agron’s side, warm and safe and satisfied.

I woke at dawn’s shy glow to an approving hum in my ear and the mindless press of hard cock upon my own.  Pushing my lips to his chest, I pulled myself closer, rocking against him between sleepy, fumbling efforts to loosen his subligaria and lower my trousers.

He sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath.  One warm hand smoothed over my bare waist, hip, ass, and fingers curled gently around my thigh, holding me still as his hips hitched against mine, hard flesh rubbing in a tingling rush.  My mouth opened over the center of his chest.  His trapped arm shifted, pillowing my cheek upon his bicep and--ah, fuck.

His breath puffed into my hair and his skin went on forever and I needed to feel all of him all at once.  He shifted closer under the palm I smoothed over his bare back and--fuck, just a little more and I would--we would-- _ ** **fuck!****_

My right hand was trapped between our torsos, but my fingers found room to curl, nails digging into his chest.  My cock -- his cock -- rubbing-smearing-spearing against each other and our bellies.  His soft groan tumbled into my ear and… fuck.

I shimmered, spilled messily on a gasping breath.  Too brief.  Too swift.  But then his seed was spurting in hot jets over the both of us and our movements turned slick-thick-sticky and I shuddered at the glide of my sensitive skin against his.

Panting, Agron’s lips pursed against my scalp, my brow, my cheek.  “Good morning,” he chuckled softly and I huffed a laugh, wincing at the pull of my wound, but I regretted nothing.

“Hm,” I agreed, rocking my skull back into the crook of his arm to return his grin in the gloaming.  “A promising start.”

The tip of his nose nudged against mine and I slid my smiling lips against his, sharing the humor.  Then I let him ease me onto my back where I submitted to efficient sweeps of his fingers and palm as he scooped away our release.  I obligingly retied his subligaria.  He rose to wash after I’d wiggled back into my trousers and knotted the drawstring.

I was still grinning up at the corridor ceiling above our pallet when he returned with water droplet-flecked hands, arms, face, chest, and belly.  One hand clutched a cut of cloth and the other a cup of water.  It was cold and I hissed at the initial contact of cloth against my belly, but distracted myself by scratching through his short hair and studying his scruff-darkened dimples.  When he deemed me passably clean, he held out an arm to me and I sat up to rinse my mouth with what fresh water was left in the cup.

Then I hooked a hand around the back of his neck and hauled him close for a proper kissing.

We broke our fast with gruel that had been simmered the night before and left out for those who would wake early for training.  I supervised Calius’ efforts.  He was unnerved to be in the presence of so many former gladiators.

“Focus upon immediate threat,” I advised firmly.  “Your opponent and none other.”  For now, it would serve.  Though should he choose to face a Roman army, such focus would likely see him killed.  Sense of surroundings: a lesson for a time when he had gained confidence and proficiency.

His throat moved with an audible, dry swallow.  “You have faced these men and bested them?”

“Many,” I confirmed with a grin.  Pushing a testing hand against my wound, I judged, “Perhaps another week -- two at most -- and I will provide demonstration.”

Later that day, I broke words with Mira at length regarding supplies.  Salt, in particular, had been seized in large quantities.  “I will seek Agron and discuss the next hunt.”  Given the villa’s large cellar, a great deal of meat could be cured during this time of rest.

Mira smirked.  “If Agron does not leap to do your bidding, I am sure Duro will.”

I laughed, cringed and settled on a grin.  “It is only fair.  I’ve done a good deal of leaping for their sakes.”

She glanced down at the bandage beneath my coat.  “I overheard Duro tell of how you received wound.”

I was unsure of what to say to that.  My jaw twitched to the side in an approximation of a shrug.

“And Donar spoke of your summoning to the Calavius domus days prior to uprising.”

“Yes,” I gritted out.  “My punishment for not spilling blood in the arena at his father’s funeral games.”

She studied me.  “Libo boasts of your single-handed victory over seven slavers on route to the mines.”

“Hardly.  I used both hands and both feet.”

Mira laughed.  “Duro spoke truth.”

“In what regard?”

“I would have enjoyed breaking words with you sooner, Nasir.”

“Likewise, Mira.  Gratitude.”  At her inquiring expression, I shared a bit of gossip regarding her accomplishments: “For seeing ludus gate opened and giving my brothers opportunity to survive the fight.”

She looked down.  “When Spartacus asks for a favor…”  She shrugged helplessly.  “What can a woman do to resist answering such a call?”

“You do not fool me,” I teasingly scolded.  “Few could rival your strength.  Spartacus is fortunate to have your loyalty.”

“Just as Agron and Duro are fortunate to have yours.”

Good fortune, yes.  There was much to be grateful for.  Not the least of which stood the lack of Romans at the gates.  And additional time to gain strength.

Early morning hunts continued to bring in meat for curing, and raiding parties sought distant roads and heavily-loaded caravans.  Every pair of hands was given daily tasks.  Those who trained with gladius and shield received somewhat briefer duties, but Mira, Camilla, Santos, and I endeavored to maintain promised equality.

The days did indeed provide rest for bodies, but minds were strung tighter and tighter with the passing of precious time.  Our numbers were large.  We would be noticed.  It was only a matter of time.  Duro and Agron pressed Spartacus to move toward Vesuvius, but Mira and Camilla warned that our current provisions would barely see us through the distance.

The tension was palpable.

Until it snapped.

I had braced myself for a fight -- short tempers and swinging fists between Agron and at least one of the Gauls who clearly resented the trust Crixus showed the three of us: Agron, Duro, and myself.

I had braced myself for petty disputes among former slaves as differing methods and expectations -- and even habitual struggles for status -- caused rifts in normally seamless tasks.

I had braced myself for a battle with Medicus over my return to training which I was determined to resume before we departed for Vesuvius.

I had braced myself for sidelong stares and unintelligible whispers as rumors regarding my motivations for pursuing Agron -- or welcoming his attentions -- inevitably made their way around the villa.

I had braced myself for the terrifying shout of “Romans!”

I had not braced myself for this:

A woman’s terrified scream -- “Peirastes!” -- echoed through the halls and my own feet answered the call.  That voice.  I knew her.  Zaria.

I reached her first, launched myself at a drunken Mannus, tumbled him off of her and to the floor, crashing among pallets.  My side screamed in pain, stole my breath, but I kept my hands up fending off the Gaul’s unbalanced punches.

“Fuck off and bend over for Agron, you piss and shit!”

“You are--”  Fuck he was strong.  “--taken with drink!”  I jerked a knee against his balls just as the clamor of footsteps announced the arrival of additional combatants.  Which side they would take I could not say.  I scrambled to get to Zaria.

A flurry of feet and fists.  I was hauled upright by a disgruntled Donar.  Spartacus snarled at Mannus for an explanation.  Peirastes stood between Zaria and the rest of the men in the room as she struggled to retie the top of her dress with shaking hands.

“She did not refuse me!” Mannus roared, and one glimpse of Zaria’s terrified countenance had me lunging to escape Donar’s grasp, clawing and kicking until he cursed and called for Agron and Duro.

“You dim fuck!” I spat at Mannus.  “Shall I rip off your balls and fashion a coin purse from them because you do not tell me _****not****_  to?”

Agron skidded to a halt, Duro bumping against his shoulder, just in time to hear the end of my challenge.  He looked between me and Mannus and--

“Fucking Gaul!” he growled, lurching for the man’s throat.  “You dare touch him!”

Mannus railed against Spartacus’ hold.  “The fucking Syrian dared--”

“Silence!” Spartacus bellowed, pushing Agron back toward Duro.

“I called you fucks to prevent Nasir from opening wound in effort of killing Mannus!” Donar complained to my brothers.

I snarled, incoherent with frustration.

Spartacus turned to Peirastes.  “Remove the girl to a quiet place so that she might break words on events.”

As Zaria was herded past me, Peirastes glaring daggers at Mannus, I scanned what I could see of her fair skin for marks.  Finding none at first glance, I stopped twisting and shoving at Donar’s grip though my fury was unabated.

I barely heard Mannus’ version of events.  I was enraged with myself for not anticipating the situation: a gladiator had made himself foolish with drink, approached a former slave woman who no doubt feared that an outright refusal would call forth anger and the man would take by force what she dared deny him, causing even greater injury.  Had I not lectured Duro on this very mindset and the potential for harm to both parties?  Had I not known this to be a possible outcome?  How could I have been so neglectful?

“--and then Agron’s boy launched attack unbidden!” Mannus fumed.  By this point, Liscus, Acer, Rhaskos, and Crixus had joined the discussion.

“She is a slave!” Rhaskos laughed, bewildered by the cause of argument.

Duro leaped into the man’s face.  “No longer, you dim goatfuck!”

Liscus rolled his eyes, tossing an arm lazily across Rhaskos’ chest to prevent him from striking Duro.  “What does it matter if--”

“If she is treated as my woman was?” Crixus bit out in a dangerous tone.

Liscus closed his mouth.  Acer was sober enough not to press the point.  Rhaskos shook his head, grinning irreverently.  As fucking usual.

Mannus grumbled, “Had Peirastes spoken claim, I would have approached another.  Fault lies with him.”

“The fault!” I raged, vision blurring.  “The fault lies with shits who think they have a right to command as a fucking dominus!”

Duro’s hand pressed against my shoulder.  Donar was still gripping my upper arms.  Agron took a half step forward, barring my path with an arm.

“Harsh words,” Spartacus appraised.

“Especially for one not invited!” Mannus pointed out.  “I did not hear anyone call your name!”

“Zaria is under my protection and she called for aid.”  I bared my teeth.  “Not even a Gaul would turn away from his sister’s screams!”

Crixus spun toward me and I realized too late what I had implied with my words.  “No,” he agreed through tightly reined anger.  “Not even a Gaul would be so callous.”

Fuck.  “Apologies, Crixus.  I--”

“It is I who is owed fucking apologies!” Mannus insisted.

“I will break none!”  Spittle fell from my lips.  “Unless it is in aid of breaking your fucking balls.”

Looking between Mannus and myself, Spartacus raised his voice for the second time: “Vitriol gains us nothing!”

With an effort, I clenched jaw, caging snarls behind gritted teeth.

“I would break words with Zaria,” Spartacus spoke, then he turned expectantly to the man who led the Gauls, “Crixus?”

“I will see to my men this night.”  Crixus paused and eyed me critically.  “If Agron will see to his.”

My lover nodded tightly and I spun away, slipping from Donar and Duro’s respective grasp.  I paced adjoining corridor, infuriated beyond any possible measure.  Those fucking gladiators.  And that fucking Gaul Mannus!  How could he not see?  How could his head be so empty of understanding?  How--just _****how?****_

Spartacus shouldered past me and my arm shot out absent my consent.  Gripping his bicep, I pleaded, “You do not understand the fear.”

“I can imagine.”

“No!” I hissed.  “You cannot.  When the price of refusal stands your life, you learn to erase the very possibility from thought and memory.  To survive.”

Spartacus stared at me hard.  Too late, I remembered that his wife had been forced into slavery.

Fuck.

He nodded tightly and I lowered my hand.  He continued on his way.  Wide-eyed and sidelong gazes alike tracking both of us.  I looked up and found myself on the receiving end of my brothers’ stares.  Duro was clearly disturbed at the plain-spoken reminder of what house slaves suffered.  Donar was gaping at me, gazing through me, perhaps seeing the blurred faces of whores he had lain with… or the faces of recently freed women who had submitted to him.  Agron looked torn between tearing someone apart with his bare hands and making proud, roaring applause.

“Fuck my ass,” Donar finally muttered.  “Never a dull moment around this one.”  He nodded toward me.

Duro found a smirk.  “Ha!  You know not the half of it.”

“Neither do you,” Agron interjected with a smack to the back of his brother’s head.

I sighed.  My side twinged.  Throbbed.  Pulsed in time with my heartbeat.  Fuck.  “This must be dealt with,” I muttered.

“I’m all for relieving Mannus of his balls,” Duro jovially contributed.

Agron made a face.  “Only if it is done at spear point.  I’ve no desire to be any closer to the shit.”

Donar giggled.  Fucking giggled.

I felt my lips quirk.  Though the issue was not resolved, at least I no longer felt the overwhelming urge to disembowel anyone.

Agron cupped my chin and I allowed him to tilt my face up.  To my surprise, he did not bestow a kiss.  Rather, he informed: “Come, Nasir.  We must tend to the wound.”

“Wound?”  For all its complaints, my side was not torn.

“Your lip bleeds.”

“Let it,” I sighed, fury and frustration fading into vague apathy.

He cupped my face in his hands and pressed a kiss to my forehead.  “Allow me,” he murmured and, recalling all of the times I had refused his aid within the ludus -- all of the secrets I had not risked uttering -- how could I deny him this small thing?

Of all the duties we now stood charged with, this one we could shoulder together.

“Very well, German,” I conceded.  “But should I suffer even one snide remark from Medicus…!”

Agron pressed a single finger against his own smiling lips and winked.  For returning my smile to me, I determined I owed him a kiss.  One that was thorough and absent blood.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the bathroom scene after Duro arrives:
> 
> OK, so Nasir finally spills the beans on all the acrobatics he did the night when he killed the guards, right? Nasir probably put this off until Duro was there because, while Nasir is proud of himself for killing those six guards (some or all of which probably made his life miserable at some point) and he’s feeling all accomplished about protecting his friends, Nasir suspects Agron will NOT be pleased with Nasir’s wound-aggravating methods. So, he waits for Duro because (1) he only wants to deal with the angry fallout once and (2) there’s a slight chance that Duro might take Nasir’s side and help calm Agron down if he flips out.
> 
> As for why this is all new information for Agron, well… no one is stupid enough to interrupt Story Time to be all, “Gee, Nasir, you’re totally leaving out the part where you almost ripped your wound open for, like, the fifth time that night.” Because Agron would be all like, “THE FUCK YOU SAY AND WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP HIM?” because of course Agron’s not going to blame Nasir for doing the same thing Agron would have done, but he will definitely blame everyone else for not stepping up when Nasir was in no shape to be acting alone and fighting on their behalf.
> 
> Obviously, Nasir thought Agron would have figured some of this out for himself BEFORE Nasir volunteered the Unabridged Version of Events. So Agron’s terrified of what might have happened and Nasir is frustrated that Agron didn’t clock the implications and they end up yelling at each other like idiots. It’s a good thing Duro was there to sort them out, eh?
> 
> And regarding Chadara, she literally does not know how to deal with Badass!Nasir when, like, the last time she saw him, he was primped-and-proper body slave "Tiberius." The reality is a bit much for her right now. (^_~)


	3. Whispers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Sexytimes (with a capital S) (^_~)

 

Rumors.

I had snarled and Mannus had raged just loud enough the night before to set tongues wagging in the morning light.  I heard snatches here and there.  Chadara seemed especially attentive of Duro as we broke our fast.

Collecting a sword, I took position beside Calius for morning drills, whispering correction as Peirastes called out the forms.  Afterward, Calius thanked me fervently for my pithy instruction.  Tilius made request of Duro for a sparring match.  The first such instance in my memory.

With a nod to Peirastes, I sought Zaria’s company.  She was mending Duro’s cloak, a garment she had made for him as I’d lain insensate with fever and our wagon had wandered lost through lawless territory of bandits.

Taking the seat beside her on the portico, I struggled to find words to break.  She grasped them first: “Brother Nasir, gratitude.”

I shook my head.  “Apologies,” I told her, “for delay in coming to aid.”

“You came.  A thing no one has ever done for me before you.”

And yet there was more I should have done.  The lecture I had given Duro -- I should have pressed it upon the others as well.  I was relieved that at least one other appeared to understand a house slave’s mind: “Peirastes…?” I nearly asked, unsure of the question itself.

She ducked her head, averted eyes.

“They say you are his woman.”  Her cheek pinkened.  “Does this upset you?”

“It is a burden I had not wanted for him.”

“You are no burden, Sister Zaria.”  When she glanced at me, I nodded with certainty.  “With a smile as lovely as yours, how could you be?”

She allowed me to lift her spirits until Peirastes called for midday meal break.  I relinquished my seat beside her and wandered the yard.  More than one freed man and woman emerged from the kitchen carrying two bowls, one fuller than the other.  The greater portion was invariably offered to a former gladiator.

The unusual attention toward those wielding sword and shield made me steer clear of safety in numbers to wander villa’s quiet interior, vigilant.

I was not the only one.

Mira’s shout -- “You fucking animal!” -- quickened my pace.  “Go!  Or part with your cock!”

A man’s voice, winded from exertion: “If you were not Spartacus’ bitch, I would show you how to use that and my cock!”

I neared the doorway just as Rhaskos stormed out, subligaria clutched in one fist and naked cock in the other.

“Apologies,” Mira began.  “I will see that Rhaskos--”

“For what purpose do you cause interruption?” an irked female voice demanded.  “You claim Spartacus for yourself.  Would you claim Rhaskos as well?”

“What?” Mira sputtered.  “I came to your aid!  We all stand equal among each other.  You need not debase yourself.”

“I do not.  I merely pay for protection with the only coin I have.”

“Protection?  Such is not needed.  We are all--”

“We are not all so well looked after as you.”  She huffed.  “And now I must soothe an ego bruised by your accusations and interference.”

The woman emerged from the alcove and marched past me without a glance.  I waited for Mira, sharing her startled look.  “We must break words with Spartacus,” I told her and she mutely nodded her agreement.

“I would not deny any the comfort of another’s presence,” the Thracian spoke in careful reply to Mira’s concerns.

“Would _****you****_  find comfort in Rhaskos’ company?” I challenged, brows arched in disbelief.

Spartacus coughed out a breath that bordered on laughter even as he shook his head.  “As you told, we all stand equals.  What right do any of us have to come between those who give consent?”

“And if they are driven out of fear?” Mira tested him.

I nodded.  “The events of last night may have been interpreted… unfavorably.”

“Everyone will soon realize that there is no cause to seek protection,” Spartacus insisted.

“And in the meantime,” Mira pointed out, “they turn energies toward competing for chosen gladiator’s favor rather than cooperating with each other.”

“Things will settle in a day or two,” was the man’s optimistic estimation.  “We will wait.”

“Spartacus,” Mira objected.

“No.  I will not dictate their personal decisions and friendships.  That is the Roman way, is it not?”

I shared an unhappy look with Mira.  It went without saying that she and I would be charged with keeping an eye on these developments.  But not on an empty stomach.

When I located Agron, he held out an untouched bowl for me.  His own had nearly been emptied as he’d waited for me to join him.  I trusted that he’d served us equal portions, but I worried for the former house slaves who had already sacrificed some measure of their own allotment for the sake of pleasing a protector.  Agron did not even have time to swallow his mouthful and ask after my irate expression before words tumbled out of me.

After I’d finished and sat in exasperated silence, my lover made solemn offer: “What would you have of me?”

Gods, he was generous.

I paused in the act of taking my first bite.  “The Brotherhood need to realize they stand in the stead of dominus to these people.  If they desire this, then they must take care for the sake of those under their charge.  And they will be held accountable for grievances that their people cause.”

Agron made a face.  “And if grievance is great enough, would it not be tempting to deal with troublemakers in the same manner Romans do?”

He was as unhappy about that possibility as I was, distant though it may be.

“We must speak with them,” I decided.  “Warn those of the Brotherhood.”

Agron nodded.  “I shall see it done.  And you will make attempt to aid those recently liberated to grasp fucking sense.”  He bumped my arm.  “In the meantime, eat.”

Exhaling a chuckle, I did.

“Your return to training this morning was noticed,” my lover approved.

I arched a brow in silent request for elaboration.

“All the trainees doubled efforts and were very attentive of your direction to Calius.”

“A result of current misunderstanding,” I muttered.

He shrugged one shoulder.  “I will make no complaint.”

No, perhaps not.  Still, the dividing line remained: those of the Brotherhood on one side and, on the other, those who were not.

Glancing across the yard, I noticed Chadara snuggled against Duro’s side despite the fact that he was undoubtedly dusty and sweaty from training.  I was well aware that she despised any hint of musk or dirt; here was yet more proof that personal preferences were being pushed aside in favor of appeasing a would-be master.

“Are they fucking?” I asked Agron.

“Not at the moment.”

I poked him with my elbow.  He took advantage of opportunity to ease an arm across my back before lifting bowl to lips and slurping down the remainder of his meal.

During the hottest portion of the day, chores were seen to indoors, as usual.  The bath was emptied, scrubbed, rinsed, and refilled.  Pallets aired out.  Floors swept.  Former gladiators and freed men and women working side by side under Camilla’s direction.  Anyone caught lazing about as another completed his or her charge was promptly put to work by either Agron, Spartacus, or Crixus.

Crixus.  I yet owed the man a proper apology.

But first, I intended to break words with Chadara.

“If you damage Duro’s heart, I will avenge him,” I warned her as we set out the washed wooden bowls to dry in the sun.

Her smile froze.  “Tiberius--”

“Nasir,” I corrected her.

Chadara’s spine straightened.  “He is a grown man, is he not?  Capable of his own choices?”

“He is a free-born man.”  She met my glare.  “He does not understand why you would seek protection among friends or even feel the need to offer payment.”

“It is a fair trade.”

“Trade, yes,” I agreed.  “Free men like Duro hold heart and business separate.  Take care so that he does not confuse the two.”

She shook her head.  “Such defense!  And yet you have known me far longer.”

My lips quirked.  “It is because I have known you longer that I warn you of likely missteps, my friend.”

She laughed.  “Do not concern yourself, Nasir.  Duro neither lies with me nor makes promises of affection.”

“You know I would come to your aid were you in need.”  As I had Zaria.

“I know.”  She glanced away in thought.  “Yet he is so…”  With a shake of her head, she asked, “Were you and I ever that… open?”

“Yes,” I insisted.  “It must be so.  We simply cannot recall.”

“I would make attempt,” she whispered and, for the first time since making acquaintance, I saw past the veils and drapery of skillful acts and careful words.

The sight gave me hope and the strength to say, “Then Duro is the right man for it.  Take care with him.”

“He is your brother.”  A warning from me, it stood as a confirmation in her lilting voice.

That night, the sounds of fucking were so overwhelming that Agron and I retreated up the rickety ladder to the roof.  Medicus greeted us both with a sour look, but sighed with contentment when he realized we would not be following the example of those in the villa.  Little by little, we were joined by others: Crixus and Naevia, Tilius and Calius, Vitus and Lysandros and Pyrrhus, Zaria and Peirastes, Duro and Chadara.  The tiles were not kind to tired bodies, but we were able to breathe air untainted by the activities below.

I hoped that this would be the end of sudden insanity, but the following days were charged with additional tension.  Stiff shoulders and sidelong scowls aimed at those who fawned over a protector.  Unequal portions.  Glares toward those who dared approach another’s warrior.  Jabs from elbows during chores as encroaching gestures crossed invisible boundaries.

This could not be allowed to continue regardless of Spartacus’ insistence otherwise.

Four tense days after the altercation between Mannus and myself, as the former gladiators claimed the yard for afternoon training and sparring matches, I circulated through the grounds, locating the former body slaves and household managers from each villa.  “Gather the men and women from your domus and assemble in the yard following day’s training,” I directed.  I then waited beside the water cache to break words with Lysandros.

“Were you present when Spartacus fought Varro at Numerius’ celebration?”

He blinked at me, startled by the sudden question.  “Yes.”

“Do you believe he would have been commanded to kill a brother?”

Lysandros dropped the empty ladle back into the clay pot and, voice low with fury, said, “Yes.”

“The Brotherhood do not see -- they are capable of making such a command to those who once stood as house slaves but hesitate to take up weapon.”

Lysandros argued, “Such a command is not their way.”

I admired his loyalty and optimism, but no amount of protests would change fact: “I do not accuse them of becoming Roman in their thinking.  They would not purposefully set man or woman against each other, yet it may come to pass out of carelessness.  Absent intent.”  Scanning the former house slave’s drawn expression, I pressed, “Or do you not see this?”

“I see it,” he unhappily allowed.

“Would you stand with Agron and offer explanation if required?  Before evening meal, I intend to address those who do not take to the sands.”

He nodded in agreement.  I next sought Agron, finding him in conference with Crixus and Spartacus.  At my approach, Agron shifted aside to make room for me to stand among them.

With a nod to the Thracian and a touch to Agron’s hip, I spoke to the Gaul.  “Apologies, Crixus, for words spoken in anger toward your people.  I was wrong to forget our friendship so easily.”

The man stared at me for a long moment.  “I find no fault in your anger and my men have not shown you any measure of respect.”

My lips twitched absent humor.  It was not an acceptance, precisely, but an acknowledgment of the aggravation that had pushed me to issue insult.  “I make no demands of Mannus regarding apologies for words spoken against Syrians.”

Crixus’ shoulders released a measure of tension.  “He would offer none.”

I nodded.

“Crixus…” Spartacus chastised.

“Apology absent understanding lacks all meaning,” I insisted and turned attention toward more pressing concerns.  “I would speak with the freed men and women before evening meal, and I would ask you--”  I met Agron’s gaze.  “--to address those of the Brotherhood, Lysandros to offer aid if required.”

Spartacus sighed.  “Situation worsens,” he admitted at the cost of pride.  “Before misunderstanding deepens to chasm, all must be brought to purpose.”

“Naevia will wish to lend aid in this,” Crixus unexpectedly volunteered, “as would I.”

I drew a breath.  “Well received.  Would you stand with me and Duro as I give address?”

He nodded.  “I would have our brothers witness this if you believe it to be beneficial.”

“It will be unpleasant to hear,” Agron warned.

“All the better,” the Gaul insisted.  “I will break words with Naevia.”

Break words.  Yes, that evening the villa was emptied of all inhabitants.  Former gladiators and liberated house slaves crowded the yard as I stood upon the portico with Agron, Lysandros, Duro, Crixus, Naevia, and Spartacus.  I placed foot upon top step and broke words to all:

“Romans,” I said.  One word that commanded the attention of all.  I repeated the source of our pain and fear: “Romans.  Who among us has felt hope and choice ripped from grasp at Roman whims?  You have.  I have.  All of us have.”

The silence was absolute.  Unnerving.  I forced myself to continue.  “My first night in the ludus of Batiatus, I was caged with two barbarians.  Men I knew I could not fight.”

I had never spoken of this to anyone.  Those who had served within domus walls would understand that moment of terror well.  Those of the Brotherhood, however, would not.  Except, perhaps, Agron; he may have sensed my wariness of him and his brother that night.  Still it was one thing to imagine the dim shadow of fear and another to _****live it.****_

“I was presented choice.  Death would come for me no matter my path.  The choice -- mine and yours -- is not one of survival.  It is of how we choose to meet our end and how we choose to live until that moment comes.”

One more breath saw my spine strengthen and shoulders straighten.  “We are not Romans.  And yet their will still haunts us.  A shadow clinging to thought and manner.  There stand no gladiators here nor house slaves for both are Roman illusions.”

Several sets of wide eyes blinked at me.  I continued: “Those who possess greater strength must gentle their touch.  Those who seek protection must not cast an ally as their dominus.”

My own breath caught upon the word, my disgust and hatred rising, choking upon hint of bile.  I shook my head against its clinging grip.  “If you seek a master’s protection or if you seek to place others beneath you, seek elsewhere; but if you would see the Romans suffer your wrath, stay and lend full strength to cause.”

I told all, “In making choice, you claim your life’s purpose with both hands.  This is yours.  This is what I fight for.  I fight for choice.  Make your own.”

Stepping back, I felt a hand upon my back and one upon opposite shoulder: Agron and Spartacus.  The Thracian nodded and shifted forward.  “My brother Nasir speaks truth.  Consider his words and your own heart.  Our path leads to the gates of Rome.  If you do not hold desire or conviction for their suffering, then make your own way.  None will stop you.”

A slight motion at the corner of eye drew my attention: Duro nudging Lysandros forward to speak.

Spartacus glanced over with a nod of invitation.

The young man cleared his throat.  “From earliest memory, I was a slave serving the house of Batiatus.  I believed my hands were not meant to hold a sword, but I was mistaken.”  He sent a quick grin in my direction.  “I would be a warrior and fight Rome.  That is my choice.”

A soft, whispering brush of touch upon fabric sent Lysandros’ gaze past me toward Crixus and Naevia.  “I would learn to fight,” she spoke tremulously, “so that I am never required to bow head beneath the will of another.  My body and my life are my own.  That is my choice.”

Into the silence, a figure moved forward through those gathered in the yard: Libo.  The old man stood upon the lowest step and spoke: “I was put to cart for the mines.  Not by reason of weakening hands or mind, but by Roman whim and desire for more comely servants to gaze upon.  I cannot fight as a warrior, but I stand alongside them against Rome and I will fall beside them.  That is my choice.”

Amazingly, Zaria twisted away from Peirastes’ side and wove through the crowd to place herself beside Libo, the simple act speaking for her in lieu of words.  Calius and Tilius joined her.  Vitus and Pyrrhus.  Mira.  Santos.  And many others.

Their choice echoed, rippled, reverberated through the assembly and I dared to hope that all finally understood what we attempted, what we willingly risked, what we determinedly sought.  We did not speak of victory -- I could not even think it -- but this thing was just as precious if not more so: a life of one’s own to command.

As Spartacus left the portico and the gathering began to disperse, Agron nodded for me to sit and answer the many curious gazes my words had drawn.

“Your first night in the ludus,” he murmured, crouching at my side.

“What of it?”

He met my arched brows with a quirk of lips and solemn gaze.  “I would hear more of this.  Later.”

Blowing out a brief laugh, I nodded.  His fingers cupped my chin.  I offered my lips for a kiss.  He departed to fetch our portions.  Into the space left in his wake, several former house slaves drifted forward, oblique questions murmured in hushed breaths, voices too soft to echo through Roman domus.

Some habits were indeed hard to break.

Just as some fears would never be forgotten.

Agron was not the only one who expressed interest in my arrival at ludus: “A cage, truly?  Shared with barbarians?  What negotiations saw you through the night?”

I told the story briefly, details sparse -- it would be embellished regardless of their lack -- and replied to my audience’s queries.

At the sound of Agron clearing his throat, I looked up and grinned at the sight of the two bowls he carried, each with an equal portion.  The small crowd parted for him, gazing upon my lover not as if tracking the movements of a wild beast, but as if seeing the man for the first time.

He held out one bowl, hesitating at arm’s length as if he might leave me to the attentions of the freed men and women.  I grabbed his wrist and tugged him down to the stone floor, removing any question from his mind as to my desire.

I urged the others to collect their evening meal and they meandered toward the kitchen, allowing me and Agron a moment to ourselves.

“Gratitude,” I spoke through a smile, cupping the offered bowl in my hands, caressing his hand and fingers as he withdrew.

“Hm.”  He tilted his head.  “I recall no small number of occasions when you did likewise for me.”

We were watched, of course, but I shrugged through it.  Let them see Agron and I.  Let them see two free men who would fight side by side.  Equals.

Agron felt the scrutiny as well: “Duro has complained that too few of those liberated seem at ease in our presence.”

I chuckled.  “Gladiators are meant to be intimidating, are they not?”

He nodded, amused.  “A habit that may prove difficult to break.”  With a sidelong glance, he noted, “You feared Duro and I that first night?”

“You must ask?” I retorted in disbelief.

He blinked, shocked.

I voiced my own suspicion: “Is that not why you made no effort to take second bench for yourself?”

“My place is at my brother’s side.”

And likely always would be.  “And yet you do not sit with him now.”

“I do,” Agron argued.

I grinned, expecting him to roll his eyes and chuckle.  He did neither.  His gaze trapped me in silence and dawning wonder; I stood as one of Agron’s brothers, of equal importance to the man with whom he shared blood.

“But now,” he continued, “your words bring to mind Duro in your place that night.  Alone.  Flanked by strangers.”  His neck and shoulders rolled with helpless amazement.  Ducking his head until our gazes shared a level, he whispered, “You stand as the bravest man I know.”

I attempted jest: “For quaking knees and careless words?”

Agron’s lips quirked.  Yes, he remembered that night.  “For standing tall and speaking your mind.  I desired to know you for that.  Hoped you would remain in the ludus.  Set it alight with your fire.”

“Fire?” I retorted, disbelieving.

“Fire,” he insisted, eyes steady and gaze solemn.  “Such fire.”

Heat blasted through me from pit of belly to scalp and sole.  I bit my lip.  Grinned.  I muttered, “I would give demonstration following evening meal and chores.”

Agron’s chin tilted forward in a silent request for a kiss.  I gave him one: soft and chaste.  A promise to be fulfilled shortly.

We ate swiftly.  Agron lent both hands to task of washing a stack of bowls and setting them out upon cleared counter’s top to dry.  Then I held out my hand.  At the feel of his palm sliding against mine, I shivered.  Smiled.  Tugged him toward our pallet.

Our lips met as I slid into his lap.  His breath caught.  Weapons clattered to the side.  Coat and cloak fell from shoulders.  Subligaria and trousers slid from skin.  Agron wrapped his cloak over our hips and thighs.  My coat was bundled under his head.  I hovered above him, our hardened flesh sliding, steaming, streaking against each other’s bellies, Agron’s hips rolling slow and steady and his hands cupping my ribs and thigh, holding me still as my wound yet healed.

I sighed in pleasure.  Braced above him on strengthening arms.  Breathed against his lips -- “Yes” -- and watched his need thicken in hazy eyes.  Felt his passion build through hot, mindless kisses.

“Yes,” I told him and he understood my meaning -- with every breath he asked, and with every heartbeat my choice was renewed: him and me and us and this.

_****“Yes.”** ** _

He brushed my hair from my shoulders, held it back as his stubble burned skin and soft lips charted my throat and I shuddered-- “Yes.”

His rough fingertips danced down my spine and into the warm, secret crevasse past my tailbone and I mewled-- “Yes.”

His musk smeared with mine upon his quivering belly and his hips rubbed us together faster and I-- “Yes.”

“Nasir,” he mouthed against my ear and I clung to him, uncaring of who watched.  I had fought for this--for him.  I had taken wound, suffered, and survived for him.  I would have him.

Thankfully, the tall grasses shielded our expressions to all but each other.  Among so many within villa walls, privacy could not be expected, but this moment was ours.  That was enough.

I groped my lover’s chest, tugged and scratched and soothed until he groaned in my ear, nuzzling.  “Every day that passes is one closer to feeling you within me again.”

Oh, fuck.  “It pleased you?”  He had never broken words on it.  Had never been given much opportunity to -- not at the ludus, at least.

“I dream of it,” he moaned and I recalled that night, the feel of him oil-slick, hot, and tight around my cock--

“Fuck!” I wheezed against his jaw, scraping his scruff with my teeth and clutching the back of his neck hard as my cock pulsed, seed surging against his belly--his length made slippery against my skin and--

His breath hitched on a whine, a gasp, lips closing around the lobe of my ear and sucking hard as he released with short, rapid jerks of his hips.  I held on.  “Yes,” I told him and simply held on.

When his head fell back against my bundled coat, my face landed in the center of his chest.  The scent of our sweat and musk and seed.  Fucking had never been this earthy and messy and real.  Before Agron, my mind had been filled with concerns -- things I must do and must not do in order to please honored guest or Dominus -- but now my only task was the pursuit of my own pleasure.

A sudden bubble of giddiness pushed silent giggles through my throat.

Agron’s hands cradled my shoulders, his fingers massaging gently up to my neck.  I hummed, pressing a smile against his scar.  My last moments as slumber crept over me were shaped by words from lands east of the Rhine.  Familiar and husky with feeling.  Words Duro had taught me.  They buzzed against my brow from Agron’s lips.

I opened my eyes to darkness.  Middle of night.  Agron curled around me, providing warmth at my back as his arm held me from pallet’s edge.  His breath on my neck tickled and I shifted, his cloak slipping free.  With a shiver, I ducked out from beneath the weight of his arm and groped for my trousers.  Squiggling into them, I rubbed a hand over my belly but discovered clean skin.

Grinning at Agron’s sleeping form, I marveled.  This man.  No one could equal him.  Not in my regard.

Seeking to relieve my bladder, I quietly made for the stables and the corner of the yard that housed the latrine.  Rather than dare to enter the small, smelly, stuffy room and fumble in the filthy dark, I turned the far corner to utilize a patch of wall.  A bucket tucked into the corner spoke of the women sharing a similar distaste for the over-used toilet.

Regardless, I could easily hold my breath long enough to achieve relief.  Staring up at the night sky, I loosened trousers and pissed.  As I finished, I became aware of a sound separate from the quiet splash.  Voices.

Having no desire to either interrupt or be drawn into discussion when Agron’s arms awaited me, I kept to the shadows as I sought the water cache to rinse my arms and hands.  But as I cut across the yard, I glimpsed a gathering of men beside the wagons.

“...be noticed,” one said quietly.

“I shall see it done,” another vowed.  His voice was familiar.

“What of Medicus?  Surely he will know--”  This tremulous tone I knew: Moritus.

“None of your concern,” the first man declared with authority.

And then their words faded to murmurs too low for me to discern, but I had heard enough to be wary.  Why did they speak of Medicus as if the man were enemy?  I was unsurprised to count Moritus among a group; the man despised autonomy.  He was only ever at ease when following another’s instructions.

“No!” another man suddenly hissed and I scowled.  It was Jusix speaking now: “You heard the same words I did.  He is lost to us.  He has made choice and will stand by it.”

Moritus mumbled something.

The leader demanded gruffly: “So you would take up sword and fight Roman soldiers?  That way lies death.”

A whimper.  The sound of a scuffle, brief and dusty.  Another round of whispers, not in argument but instruction, though what orders were given I could not hear.  And then the gathering dispersed.

Frowning, I sought the infirmary entrance.  With the kitchen in operation all day long, Medicus had wisely surrendered ground to Euclid.  The one-armed ludus cook had taken to feeding hundreds of people like a man waging war.  Those assigned to kitchen duty followed his orders precisely from dawn until midday meal was eaten and evening meal was simmering.  Then the man escaped the kitchen.  I had seen him with Libo more than once, grooming the horses in the stables, smiling with contentment.  An unexpected sight.

Medicus snored softly upon his pallet in the storeroom among his herbs and poultices.  I peeked out toward the overgrown garden, torn between standing guard here and rejoining Agron.  I compromised by returning to our pallet long enough to ensure that my lover yet slept peacefully, and then retreated to the kitchen doorway to keep watch over both men: my lover across the sea of tall grass and Medicus snoring beyond adjacent threshold.  As I settled myself in the shadows, I considered the words I’d overheard, committing them to memory.

Who had Moritus spoken of?  Who was “lost” to those four men and their cause?  Clearly, they would not make the trek to Vesuvius with us, though none yet had been told where we headed.  A precaution Agron and Crixus had insisted upon when Spartacus stood adamant on releasing those unwilling to aid cause.

“Not all are villains,” the Thracian had insisted.

“Yet with the application of force, any man or woman can be made to speak,” Crixus had replied.

Agron had shaken his head.  “Gods save me.  I find myself in agreement with a Gaul.”

My lips had quirked along with theirs at his wry jest.

I was not amused now and doubly grateful that our ultimate destination had not been revealed.  Those four men -- if they indeed held intent to betray us -- would only know this place.  Which would likely be discovered soon by a scouting party regardless.

I turned my thoughts toward another concern: whatever their plan was, somehow Medicus would present difficulties in its fruition.  I considered all options I could conceive of -- over and over and over again -- until I glimpsed Agron rising from our pallet in the gloom before dawn.  Making my way over to him, I took his hand and tugged him toward the villa side entrance.

His palms were warm upon my arms and back, a deft contrast with my chilled skin.  I shivered.

“Your coat,” he began, thinking of my abandoned garment, and I shushed him with a hand over his lips.  Stepping flush against him, his arms encircled me with welcome heat and I whispered what I had overheard into his ear.

He sighed heavily.  “Spartacus,” Agron grumbled.

“I am called Nasir,” I teased weakly.

He poked me in the side in retaliation, sending a jolt through me.  “You know my meaning,” he accused correctly: I did.

We sought Spartacus, delaying both him and Mira from breaking their fast.  Agron stood just within doorway, keeping watch over passersby as I spoke.

“Last night in the yard, I overheard mention made of our medicus by a group of four men.”

Spartacus asked, “Their purpose?”

“Unknown.  I heard only the medicus’ name spoken in inquiry.  All else was too low to hear.  Whispers.”  That was not entirely true, but as I did not know the purpose of their discussion, I thought it best not to waste time giving lengthy report on speculation.

Agron’s gaze caught mine, not to urge me to repeat the nonsensical details I had told him at dawn, but to ask: “Their names?  Faces?”

I hesitated to name those I had perhaps recognized.  Were I mistaken, the men would suffer greatly and unjustly for it.  “It was dark and they stood at a fair distance,” I replied with a helpless shrug.  “But they seemed unwilling to join us in fighting the Romans.”

“Such is their right,” Spartacus allowed.

I did not disagree, but-- “I hold concern for Medicus.”

“These men mean him harm?”

Again, I stood uncertain.  Mira sighed with frustration I well understood: I did not offer enough reliable information to warrant the formation of a counter-plan.

“We continue as intended,” Spartacus decided, “but with vigilance.”

No one argued.  None of us could.  All we could do now was wait.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By now you’ve probably noticed that I really wished the TV show could have devoted a little time to exploring the differences between former gladiators and former house slaves. There had to have been friction there, but we don’t really see it. We see friction between former gladiators and the warriors that are liberated from the ship in Neapolis; the former adhere to a regimented power structure while the latter pledge themselves individually to a leader upon show of strength. (Not sure if that’s the best way to describe it. Oh well. I tried.)


	4. Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: sexytimes (like, OK, but ridiculous sexytimes… that I almost deleted about a hundred times), non-graphic reference to past NCS (from the time Nasir lived as "Tiberius")

 

“Attention!”

Spartacus’ voice sliced through the morning murmur and lazy scrape of bread crust against bowls, drawing the gaze of all.

He spoke: “This day, we make preparation to leave behind this villa.  If you seek to part ways and forge your own path, break words on intent and receive provisions for your journey.”

It was a generous offer.  No one approached me throughout the day, though I did spot a few people in quiet conference with Mira.  Santos and I along with many other former body slaves, such as Vipio and Aria, organized the arrangement of necessary items in the carts, directing each team assigned to us to fetch items in specific order for secure and economical packing.

Every wagon was stocked with a variety of provisions in the event should one be damaged or lost to raiders, we would not part with the entirety of a single item.  The only exception being Medicus’ containers of herbs.  The man darted here and there, ordering specific pots and baskets to be placed together.  His shrewd eyes memorized the cart and location of ingredient within each.  I admired his passion for his craft even as those emptying the infirmary storeroom rolled their eyes and sighed at his fussing.

The day was long, but by its conclusion, all was ready for transport with exception of pallets, which many people would carry upon back rather than allowing theirs to become jumbled up among others.  No one wished to be given a pallet that Rhaskos had sweated upon.

People were just beginning to tiredly break bread for evening meal, when a shout halted my shuffling steps: “Nasir!”

I turned.  “Calius,” I greeted warmly, but then promptly braced myself at the sight of barely restrained panic in the man’s eyes.  When he grabbed my arm and drew me into secluded corner out of sight, I knew I would not be receiving glad news.  With one hand gripping knife handle, I returned Calius’ hold, steadying him.

“What ill do you suffer?” I demanded softly, prepared to avenge him.

“I do not suffer for I recognize the scent and taste.  I spat it out.”  He indicated the full bowl in his left hand.

“Of what do you speak?”

“Evening meal.  The herbs.  They are the same as those that Medicus provided -- the same that caused me to fall to slumber and remain there from midnight ‘til noon of following day!”

I shook my head.  “You are saying…”

“Someone makes attempt to send us all to sleep.”  He shook his head, frantic.  “But to what end?”

I did not know.  But the whispers I had overheard the night before suddenly coalesced into genuine threat.

“Where is Euclid?”  As the master of the kitchen, he was responsible for every ingredient placed in the cook pots.  Though, perhaps the herbs had been added after he’d retired from his duties for the day…  “Have you seen him taking evening meal?”

“I have not.”

“Let us find him.”

A plan to suss out the target and, hopefully, the culprit as well, was misting into form, but I could not allow the villain -- or villains -- to note our suspicions.  In the kitchen, one pot was already empty.  I claimed my portion as well as Agron’s from the second.  With a glance, I noted the absence of kitchen’s master.

On a whim, I ducked into the infirmary, seeking the medicus.  He was absent as well.  The storeroom he had painstakingly organized stood vacant, shelves bare.

If Euclid were unaware of the herbs’ effects, Medicus would surely not be.  Perhaps this stood as the obstacle the saboteurs had spoken of.  If neither Medicus nor Euclid were capable of sounding alarm, then everyone in the villa would be left vulnerable.

“Come,” I told Calius.  The man stayed at my shoulder rather than my heels and, fuck was I proud of this former slave and how far he had come.  He would hear of it from me later.

“Agron!” I called with a smile, drawing him away from villa’s entrance.  Holding up the bowls, I teased, “Perhaps I hold what you seek?”

With a laugh, he leaped down from the portico steps, crossing the yard and weaving through listless crowd with clear exhaustion.  He may not have trained today, but the back-and-forth of arranging varied loads for eight wagons was no small task.  He reached for his bowl, but I held tight.  His eyes narrowed and chin twitched to the side in question.

Tilting my jaw up in invitation, we shared a brief kiss.  Releasing the bowl into his grasp, I hooked free hand around his neck, guiding ear toward my lips to whisper, “The hand responsible for this meal would cause us all to fall to prolonged slumber.”

I leaned back and smiled warmly, nudging Agron’s lips with my fingers in an effort to erase the forming scowl.  “Where is Duro?”

We found him slumped upon his pallet.  Agron kicked his foot and Duro peered at us with one eye.  He grinned.  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Let us take evening meal together,” I insisted.

Duro’s grin widened.  “Ah, this is our tradition: together again before setting foot to path.”  He nodded for us to take a seat wherever we liked.  “Chadara brings our portions.”

So she did.  At the sight of her approach, I nudged Agron and he leaned close to mutter instruction into Duro’s ear.  His reaction confirmed that Agron had ordered him to abstain from evening meal.

“What?” Duro barked, startled and clearly irked.  “For what fucking--”

Agron softly repeated the words I had risked sharing with him, “It is corrupted.”

Duro cast his gaze over the people already eating heartily.  As I watched, six more liberated slaves emerged from the kitchen with servings in hand.  “How?” Duro demanded on horrified breath.  “With death?”

“Slumber.”

“Who would--?”

“That is what we must discover.  Reveal to none your suspicions,” I hissed.

Chadara drew close enough to say, “What dour expressions!  Has something unfortunate transpired?”

“Yes,” I quickly replied.  “Medicus.”  She handed Duro his bowl and gracefully sat beside him on the pallet.  The intimacy of their closeness was not lost on me.  I lied, “I overheard him breaking words with another; he may intend to part ways with us come dawn.”

“Ill news,” she agreed, slipping a spoonful of stew into her mouth.  She swallowed and scooped up a second.  Beside her, Duro was tense, glaring at me and Agron, jaw clenched with building fury, but I merely sought to evaluate the likelihood of her involvement.  With each bite she took, she further distanced herself from suspicion.

“It is.”  I stirred my food.  “Have you seen the man?”

She shook her head.  Took another bite.  “Not since midday meal.”

I stood.  “Hm.  Perhaps Mira will know his whereabouts.”  Stepping close to her and crouching down, I lowered my voice.  “Eat no more of this food.”

She glanced down at the next spoonful.  Leaned forward and sniffed it.  “The spice?” she asked, uncertain.

I nodded and Duro leaned close to murmur explanation in Chadara’s ear before her expression could reflect fear of poisoning.  “Calius, you are welcome to remain here.”

“Gratitude.”  He looked it as well: tension abruptly dissipating from his form.  The man’s bravery had swiftly burned itself out, but it _****had****_  burned.  No small accomplishment.

Agron nodded me toward the atrium and the small dining room Spartacus and Mira had claimed for their own bedchamber.

My lover idly remarked, “Mira is likely within as well.”

She was -- standing at Spartacus’ side in the very room that Marius had used.  I wondered if the bed yet stank of Roman perfume.

An unimportant query.  However, Mira and Spartacus were not the only ones in the room.  There was one other: Camilla.

Eyeing our untouched bowls, the older woman remarked, “You are familiar with the recipe.”

So was she, apparently.  After years of tending to the ills of numerous slaves within Roman domus, this woman would know herbs well.  Nearly as well as Medicus.

“Calius tasted it recently,” I answered.

Agron nodded ruefully.  “He did not give high recommendation.”

Mira and Spartacus glanced toward the full bowls Agron and I yet held.  We would find someplace to dispose of the contents.  Perhaps the yard.

Spartacus let out a long breath.  “Who else has difficulty enjoying today’s meal?”

“My brother and Chadara.  They sit with Calius.”

“And yet,” Mira mused softly, “the ones who should stand here with us are not present.  Where are Euclid and Medicus?”

No one could say.

Turning to Camilla and Mira, I asked, “Who was charged with midday and evening meals?”

Most of the names I recognized, including Moritus, but I gave no indication.  If I spoke false accusation, the resulting harm could be irreparable.

A moment of silence followed.  Spartacus decided: “We will proceed as if nothing is amiss.  Those who would betray us will soon reveal themselves.  We must remain vigilant yet cause no suspicion.”

Agron nodded, accepting the orders readily.  “Nasir and I will warn the others who have not yet eaten.”  The others -- those of the Brotherhood.  It would be a tactical error to alert everyone to the situation.  The innocent would panic and the guilty fade back into the throng.  If we did not allow the villains to reveal themselves tonight when they believed they held advantage, then we would all be vulnerable in the days and weeks ahead.

I told our allies, “Agron and I will take rest upon roof and watch over the yard.  Duro and Calius keep watch over the peristylium.”

Spartacus nodded.  “Mira and I remain within atrium.”

Camilla spoke, “I must check the wagons once more before bed.”

“Wait a moment,” Agron requested.  “Nasir and I will accompany you.”

My lips twitched into a rueful grin; my lover was just as wary as I was.  If Medicus was not within the rooms of the villa, perhaps he had been forced into a wagon.  Or the stables.  Or onto the roof or over the wall.  His body could be anywhere.  Fuck.

“Remain here,” Agron told Camilla.  “We will return after gathering others to join us.”

I was not optimistic that many former gladiators would yet have empty stomachs.  The former house slaves had always ceded to those branded with the mark of the Brotherhood, accepting lower status with habitual ease.  It was likely all of our brothers had already eaten.

We found Donar, who was sprawled and snoring upon his pallet beside a dark-haired woman I recognized from my former villa: Andra.  She was curled up between his bulk and the wall.  Both of their bowls stood recently emptied.  Peirastes and Zaria slumbered.  Lysandros and Vitus were just sitting down with Pyrrhus, bowls yet full and Agron barked that they see themselves to bath before eating.

They frowned in confusion but obeyed.  As they moved past me, I whispered, “Break words with Duro first and tell we sent you.”

As we moved through the villa, I wondered at the scheme we stood in the midst of.  What was their aim?  To render the lookouts ineffective in order for an attack to come over the walls undetected?  To make escape with all our provisions and set foot toward the mountains?  Or did they plan to sell information of our whereabouts to nearest Roman soldier?

“Fuck the gods,” Agron muttered, leaning over the threshold of Crixus and Naevia’s quarters.  I peered around his shoulder and blinked: Naevia sat upon the pallet, knife in trembling hand as she guarded her lover.  A soft snore and an empty bowl offered explanation for why the Gaul slept deeply.

Naevia said, “He collected our bowls.  I arrived too late to tell him…”

Agron held up a hand to halt her explanation.

I inquired, “Shall I send Lysandros, Vitus, or Pyrrhus to you?”

“Vitus,” she accepted with a smile.  “Crixus sometimes offers him instruction during training.”

Ah, so it would not seem odd for the young man to be in the Gaul’s presence.  “We will see it done.”  And quickly.  Time was running out; soon, everyone who had partaken of the evening meal would be asleep and the perpetrators would notice that some had escaped their net.

As expected, we located no one else of the Brotherhood yet awake.  Agron and I found Vitus with Duro.  We sent him to assist Naevia and ordered Lysandros and Pyrrhus back to their pallets.

“Do not fall to slumber.  Keep watch over surroundings.  We wait for the villains to reveal themselves and their intent,” Agron directed and Duro looked to Chadara, who appeared to be fighting drowsiness.

Duro offered, “Take rest with me.  I stand watch.”

She nodded readily and he shifted to give her the space between his back and the wall behind.  I motioned for Calius to come with Agron and I.  We returned for Camilla.  Agron stayed with her to open each of the carts on the pretense of final inspection.  Calius and I looked in on the stables.  Libo, Euclid, and two other men slumped against the wall of an unused stall, empty bowls at their side and eyes closed.

Ah.  So Euclid had fallen into the trap like everyone else.  Odd.  I was sure Spartacus would have questions for him when he awoke.

Focusing on Libo, I crept forward and shook the old man.  He grunted but did not stir otherwise.  I struck him smartly across the face with open palm.  A soft groan.  His eyes did not open.  His arms did not rise.  He was helpless.

Fuck the gods.

Calius and I returned to the yard, moving quietly.  Within the wagon furthest from the gate, Agron was shifting amphorae of wine aside as quietly as possible.  “Medicus,” he said softly, reaching deeper into the packed cart, but even with his long arms, he could not bridge the distance.  Reluctantly, he climbed out.  “Nasir?” he prompted and I climbed in, weaving along the narrow path he’d cleared.

Medicus had been curled up beneath a passenger bench.  I placed a hand on his chest, which moved with shallow breath.  In the darkness, I felt for his head.  Paused at the feel of damp clumps of hair.  My hand came away sticky with drying blood.

Withdrawing, I whispered my report: “He yet draws breath, but suffers wounds.”  I showed blood-smeared fingers.

“We cannot move him in the dark,” Camilla declared unhappily.

“And we cannot yet risk light,” I acknowledged.  “Calius, will you sit with him?  If he wakes, keep him calm.”

Agron placed a hand on my shoulder and told Calius, “We will come for both of you as soon as the villains are discovered.”

Gripping the knife upon his belt, the man nodded and climbed into the cart.  We shut the door but did not lock it.

I turned to Camilla.  “Will you return to the villa or ascend to the roof with us?”

“The villa,” she chose and we watched from the entrance until she’d settled upon her pallet in the flickering lamp light.  All was eerily quiet.  The evening meal would normally devolve into drunken singing and laughter, gambling and fucking.  Of course, the night before our endeavor -- the move to unknown but advantageous location imminent -- it stood to reason that all would retire early.

Agron and I moved through the shadows beneath the eaves to the ladder which stood beside the villa side entrance.  We quietly gained the rooftop and scouted it side by side.  No one other than the two of us lurked upon these tiles.  We took up position out of view of ladder’s top and turned our gaze toward the wagons in the yard.  Anyone seeking to escape in the dead of night would likely take at least one cart, secure in the knowledge that all slept soundly and the noise would rouse no shout of discovery.

“Vipio oversaw that wagon,” I whispered, jerking chin toward the cart which now held both Medicus and Calius.

Agron nodded.  “I met the man.  At the first villa we took south of Capua.  Sour fuck.”

From Agron’s sneer, I discerned: “You were not fast friends.”

“Pompous little shit,” he grumbled and I grinned.  But then Agron straightened and said, “I was moments away from putting fist through teeth when Duro popped up -- all shy smiles and charm.”

“There’s a reason he’s called a pup,” I agreed.  “The former slaves trust his honesty and kindness.  Blunt and playful.  There’s not a dram of guile in him.”

Agron’s head bowed.  “You were more at ease around Duro than me.  At the ludus.”

I did not deny it.  “For a few days, perhaps.”

He huffed a laugh.  “It was threat of cock-sucking that changed your mind.”

“No.”  I chuckled at the old joke, reaching up a hand to poke his nearest dimple with the tip of my finger.  “This.”

“Only the one?”

Cottoning on to his teasing, I relented: “And this one--”  I caressed the other on opposite cheek.  “--and these.”  My thumbs brushed beneath his eyes.  Such gorgeous, enigmatically colored, bold eyes, unsuited to holding secrets.  I groped for his hands and guided one up to my neck, fingers tangling in my hair.  “These as well.”

His soft laugh was so fucking gorgeous I was compelled to lean in for a kiss and allow a shiver under his warm, gentle touch.  With brief glide of tongue upon my lower lip, he withdrew.  I sighed wistfully and reluctantly returned to our charge.

We waited.

The moon slipped across the sky.

My belly complained, swiftly followed by Agron’s.  We should have collected some untainted food from the carts, but it had not occurred to either of us.  There was nothing to be done for it now.

Well… no, that was untrue: I could think of one thing we could each consume to ease our hunger.  Did I dare?  Did Agron?  There was one way to find out.  I shifted against the tiles, my cock swelling at the memory of Agron’s mouth.  Fuck did I adore the feel of myself between his taut lips and upon his strong, lush tongue.

I wished I could happily offer to do likewise for him, but Agron had promised not to ask anything of me that had once been demanded by Romans… and the very thought of the act churned dark memories and stomach-clenching panic.

However, I had no reservations regarding the use of my hands upon him and my tongue licking both my own fingers and his belly clean of hot seed.  My cock pulsed and pushed against my trousers.  No, absolutely no objections to that at all.

I turned toward Agron as his belly let out another low growl.  He looked at me.  I smiled and wondered if he could see it in the darkness.  Regardless, he felt my hand upon his bare thigh, caressing with purpose.  His hand brushed past my cheek and settled against my neck, tugging me closer in acceptance.  I leaned forward to kiss his lips.

“I will be quick,” I murmured and he shivered.  He was silent as I removed both cup and cloth and stroked him.  He panted against my neck as I watched the rooftop at our backs and he surveyed the yard below.

His hips rolled and his hand skimmed over my coat, fingers diving beneath the hem to brush frantic patterns against my skin.  His gritted teeth pressed against my throat and then a soft moan nudged against the skin beneath my ear and he was giving me what I’d asked for, spilling messily over my fingers and back of hand.

Reluctantly, I released his spent length and licked up his offering, sucking on each finger and lapping at the tender spaces in between.

“Fuck,” Agron breathed.

I hummed softly, lowering my spit-slicked hand, every trace of his seed removed.  I reached for the drawstring of my trousers.  Agron’s stomach gurgled hopefully.  A gust of silent laughter escaped me.  “Hungry?” I inquired.

With a subdued snarl, he slid further down the tiles, his breath panting against ribs through coat fabric… upon bandaged belly… over bare hip.

His hand collected my hardened flesh.  His mouth descended.  With gritted teeth, I struggled to watch the yard below and the roof at back, listen for any sounds that might come from within villa…

Ah, fuck his mouth was perfect and hot and--fucking fuck when he tugged just so, tongue twisting and rolling and--fuck!

My hips bucked, thrust, fucked up into his slick heat and as badly as I wanted it to never end, I nevertheless burned to give him what he sought.  With every relentless, sucking draw from his mouth, I heard the words:

Give to me.

Give to me.

Give to me.

My hand parted from the bruisingly tight grip I had upon his shoulder to dive into his hair, fingers clenching hard in warning because it--this--I--fuck oh fuck--I--

I gave.

And gave.

And gave.

I panted, shuddered, stared into the darkness of my own eyelids.  Realizing that my eyes were closed, I forced them open.  Agron sat at my feet, silhouetted in the darkness.  I extended a hand toward his chin, located a slick, escaping dribble among his short, stiff beard.  Wiped it up.  He caught my wrist and my cock tingled anew when his lips surrounded my thumb and sucked it clean.

Ah, fuck.

One day, Agron and I would have four walls, a solid door, and a large bed.  And we would not part company for the duration of an entire week.

He slid up next to me as I wiggled into my trousers once again.  I assumed he’d already reassembled his subligaria, and I suddenly wondered what manner of clothes men east of the Rhine preferred.  Agron did not seem bothered by lack of cloth upon his person: a belt, loincloth, and cloak appeased him.  Duro was likewise inclined, though he had taken to wearing leather cords around his neck at some point during the raids upon Roman villas.  Many of those with the mark of the Brotherhood donned similar adornments, even Crixus.  Agron, however, did not.  Nor did Spartacus.

Agron leaned close and breathed into my ear, “Gratitude.  For feast.”

I crunched the laugh down into my belly.  “I merely return favor.”

“Should you desire another serving…” he purred, catching the lobe of my ear between his teeth.

My hand grabbed onto his bare neck.  “Well received.  Break words when it stands ready.”

His chuckle puffed against my skin.  I massaged his throat.  “You do not wear adornments like the others.  Like Duro.”

He shrugged.  “I have never bothered with such, but I would were it a gift.”

“Hm.  Zaria might craft one for you.”

Agron huffed in irritation.  “A gift from my heart I would proudly wear.”

“Ah,” I breathed, tracing the line of his collarbones back and forth with my fingertips.

He braced an arm against the tiles at my back.

We waited.  Watched.

Sometimes I pressed a wet kiss to his neck or cheek for the breeze to cool and dry.  He shivered each time, demonstrating that he was yet awake and aware.  He returned the favor with soft lips and scratchy stubble, sending chills down my spine and heat blossoming under my skin.

Nearly half the night passed before we heard the sound of footsteps upon stone tiles.  One set.  Two.  Three.  Four or, perhaps, more.  I held my breath, waiting for the lookouts within the villa -- Spartacus and Mira, Camilla, Duro, Vitus and Naevia, Lysandros and Pyrrhus -- to give signal.

A pair of torch-bearing figures crossed the yard and disappeared into the stables.  They emerged quickly with two horses.  I was saddened as I watched Moritus hitch one to the first wagon.  I had badly wanted to be wrong, but if Moritus participated in this scheme, it was likely Jusix did as well.  My ears had not deceived me the night before.

When the wagon stood ready for travel, both men returned to the villa by main entrance.  With a glance at Agron, we swung down from the eaves, landing in silence, and crept after them into the house.  Their silhouettes and the pitter-patter of their sandals moved toward the dining room Spartacus and Mira slept in.

Or did not sleep, as was the case tonight.

We entered and, in the dim lamp light, saw two men bound and gagged in the corner: Vipio and Jusix. A set of shackles had been discarded on the floor.  Mira was binding Moritus’ hands as Spartacus restrained those of a fourth whom I did not know.

Were these four men the sum total of their group?  We could not be sure.  I grabbed the scarf from Jusix’s head and held it out to Mira -- with her height and slight build she could more easily pass for a male house slave than either Agron or Spartacus.  I covered my hair with my hood and both Agron and Spartacus understood my intent.  Spartacus donned the shackles upon his wrists, holding them in place and leaving them unlocked.  Agron captured my chin and I lifted my face for a quick, silent kiss.

Mira took Spartacus’ knees and I hooked my arms under his arms.  His chin wobbled against chest as if unconscious as we hauled him through the atrium and down the steps.  He fit into the back of the cart with no room to spare.  Mira climbed up to the driver’s seat.  

I opened the gates and guided the horses noisily through.  Before we’d made it even a dozen paces, the sound of running footsteps crossed the yard.  I did not slow until I heard a breathless feminine shout: “Vipio, you cur!  You gave us your word!”

The gate slammed shut.

I turned, drawing sword.

Mira leaped down from the driver’s seat and unsheathed knife.

The group caught between locked gate and halted wagon paused in their rush.

I bit back an unhappy sigh as I took in the sight of a dozen former slaves, bedrolls hastily slung over their shoulders and homemade satchels filled.  Mira and I approached cart’s door and revealed Spartacus who, far from being helpless and unconscious, was unshackled as well.  He slid down, placing feet upon solid ground, and surveyed the group, shoulders slumped in disappointment.

They turned back toward the villa only to find Agron and Duro dropping over the wall to stand between them and the gate.  Lysandros and Pyrrhus would be standing guard within.  The conspirators were caught.

Now all that remained was Spartacus’ judgment.

I did not envy him the task.

 


	5. Parting Ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: farewells (tissues may be necessary), slavery (TAG: Nasir makes the hard decisions)
> 
> Theme music for the second half of The Path: "Walk Through The Fire" by ZΛYDE WØLF feat. RUELLE  
> (Also, I get serious War of the Damned Crixus and Naevia feels from this song!)

 

“Why?”

A single word and yet it was made endless with the weight of heartache.  I pitied Spartacus.  He did not understand how a man or woman beaten and brought to heel under Roman rule could resist freedom, could be terrified of it, could feel no thirst for revenge.  Being stripped of the only home they had ever known, forced to abandon comfort and security in a land of men and women who would gladly use and discard them…

No.  I did not question why they chose the safer path: survival.

The night wind gusted by, tugging at my hood and I allowed it to fall away.

One woman stepped forward.  I recognized her from the house of Batiatus and the wound was salted by the knowledge that we had so badly misjudged one who had seemed to stand with us from the beginning.

She spoke: “We did not wish for this.  We did not ask for it.  This was not our choice.”

“Aria…” Mira began and then stalled, clearly at a loss for words.

“So you joined with Vipio,” Spartacus summarized.  “In attempt to take more than a fair portion of provisions, deprive Medicus of life, and sell me to the Romans.”

Shock rippled through the gathering.  “No!” Aria declared.  “We sought only safe passage in numbers.”

Spartacus wanted to believe her.  Fuck, I wanted to believe her.

The sound of a sword being drawn sent a shock of urgency through me, through everyone.  Gasps and helpless sobs crashed ineffectually against my lover’s rage.  Agron glared at these men and women, merciless and moments away from spilling blood.

Spartacus held up a hand toward him and shook his head.  “Calm yourselves,” he commanded in a firm voice.  “As promised, none will stop you from leaving.”

Aria replied, voice sharp, “If we do not die tonight by the sword, then we die upon the road.”

“We were promised safe passage,” a man of middle years added.

“By whose words?”

“Vipio.  He spoke of a treasure to be exchanged for our lives.”

I cleared my throat.  “Perhaps we should permit him to break words.”

Spartacus nodded.  “Bring the other four.”

I did not look at Agron as I moved past and rapped upon the wooden gate.  Lysandros and Pyrrhus opened the doors.  “Fetch lamps and rouse Camilla.  It is time to tend to Medicus.”

They frowned at the instructions, but hurried to see it done.  I fetched Vitus and together we herded the four men who had been captured through the atrium of slumbering forms and across the yard.  Through the gate and under the despondent but immovable gaze of Spartacus.

“Speak your intent,” he commanded quietly and the story came forth.  A simple plan to exchange Spartacus for safe passage and freedom for some and a position of respect within a noble domus for others.

I shook my head.  “You are no fool Vipio,” I retorted.  “You are well aware that no Roman would cede to these demands.”

Scanning the faces before me, I informed, “If you intended to allow Vipio to negotiate on your behalf, you would have found yourselves at slave market again.”  Or put to cart for the mines.  Or nailed to cross.  Regarding the former body slave and head-of-house, I concluded, “Romans only possess enough charity for one.”  If that.

“Am I not owed it?” the man snarled.  “After what was taken from me, am I not owed all that I have worked for?  A lifetime of service now counts for nothing!”

“You see only what you have lost, not what you have gained.”

“Yes.  Of course.  Certain death upon Roman cross.  Such a gift.”

“I will see you to slave market to acquire a new dominus if that is your wish.”

A beat of startled silence echoed through the gathering.  In its wake, I realized I had been the one to make the offer.  Gathering my shock-scattered wits, I continued, “A life of freedom is not one of comfort, either among us or far from Rome.”  I turned from Vipio’s blank-faced surprise to study the expressions of the others.  “Make your choice.  I know these lands and their roads well.  I will aid you.”

Spartacus’ hand gripped my shoulder.  “Nasir…”

“This is what I fight for,” I reminded him -- I reminded all.  “I fight for freedom of choice.”

“Your wound,” he argued.  “I would have you rest yet a while longer.”

I had been training among the Brotherhood for nearly a week!  Baring teeth, I hissed: “Provide test and I will set mind at ease.”

His hand withdrew.  He nodded.  “Take rest now.  After morning meal, we shall see to it.”  Looking toward the gate, he said, “Agron, Duro, see these people to my chambers where they may rest until all others awaken.”

In a low tone meant only for my ears, Spartacus said, “If you insist on this journey, allow your German brothers to join you.”

Spartacus turned away to assist Mira with driving the horses back through the gate and returning them to the stables.

I stood upon the road, resolve hardening.  Despite Spartacus’ command, I would not permit Agron and Duro to accompany me.  Absolutely not.  To remove Agron from his hard-won position -- his charge of moving our numbers to Vesuvius and making preparations to both raid the port city of Neapolis and liberate ships carrying captured fighting men -- taking that from him would be as bad as what had been done to Vipio.  I would not strip a man of purpose.  Agron had earned his place beside Spartacus and there was no better man to see the tasks assigned to completion.  Nor would I separate him and Duro.  Never.

I sought out Camilla.  She was not difficult to locate; as the infirmary stood empty of all herbs and supplies, she tended to Medicus’ wound just within the atrium entrance where light was plentiful and wagons containing crucial poultices stood nearby.

The man’s head had been struck.  Skull appeared intact; flesh scraped and cut, but not deeply enough to require stitching.  Until the man regained consciousness, we could only guess at the identity of his assailant and intent.

I offered assistance, but Calius had already proven himself to be competent in following her instructions, so I sought my pallet.  It seemed hard and cold without Agron crowding me upon it.

I closed my eyes.

I opened them to daylight and warm embrace.

I sighed.

Agron pressed beseeching kisses against my neck, behind my ear, against my hair.  “Come to Vesuvius?” he breathed.  He did not order; he _****asked.****_

I gripped his arms tightly but offered no promises.  When he realized this, he sat up and cupped the side of my face.  Met my gaze.  “Nasir…”

I petted his cheeks.  Smiled.  “My heart is yours,” I told him, yet even as the words passed my lips, I realized that I could not keep my promise to him -- a promise made the night before he’d first left for the arena: I could not give him all of me.  To do so would make me a slave again and I -- Nasir -- could not abide that.  Agron held my heart, yes, but he did not hold my purpose: I fought so that every man and woman might choose their own path, even if it led them back to Rome.

He shook his head, eyes misty and mouth taut.  “Fucking Syrian.”

I kissed him, and then I urged him up.  It was time to break our fast.  On the portico, Duro handed us both our portions.  He glanced hopefully at Agron, who looked away.  Duro’s jaw clenched.  He did not cast gaze toward me.

I ate.  I drank from the water cache.  I fetched a spear.

Confusion buzzed in the air as I claimed an unoccupied patch of yard and began morning drills unprompted.  Five minutes later, Spartacus claimed place at my side with twin swords.  Then Rabanus with a trident.  Then Agron and Duro with sword and shield each.  I completed my routine and stepped aside.  I was ready.

Rabanus faced me first and people drew back to a safe distance as we each assumed first position.  I struck first.  He made attempt to lock spear’s shaft between trident’s barbs, but after twenty moves, neither of us had lost weapon, drawn blood, or fallen to ground.

Spartacus stepped in next.  I was not able to leap-kick-tumble in mid-air as I once had -- not yet -- but this was not the arena.  There was no showmanship in true battle.  I robbed Spartacus of one blade and he tumbled me to the dust once, but I regained feet and faced him with determination renewed.  His twenty moves spent, he ceded his place to Agron and Duro.

I opposed both my Germans without comment.  Duro was furious.  Agron was resolute.  Duro charged and I spun aside, dodged toward Agron to block my lover’s blow.  Back and forth, I twisted and struck, rapped shaft against ankles and elbows.  Delivered jarring blows to back of knees, whacks that sent shield arms wide--

Spear tip to Agron’s chest.  A drop of blood pooled before I ducked and pivoted--

Spear tip to base of Duro’s chin.  With a lurch of hips-shoulders-arms, I could easily see him to the afterlife.

I stood down, panting and sore and unable to hide my grin.  Fuck but it felt good to fight again.

Duro rubbed the tender skin of his neck, but I had not drawn blood.  Not from my German pup.  Of course not.

Agron moved closer and murmured, “Reveal wound.”

This time, I obliged.  The stitches were long removed and the burned flesh had thickened into a vividly pink scar.  The line where sword’s blade had sliced through my flesh was merely a thin indentation, sealed shut.  I was hale.

Heedless of the dozens of eyes upon us, Agron pressed his forehead to mine and I could feel his pride, his love, his desperation that I not leave his side, his acceptance that there was nothing he could do to stop me.

Spartacus addressed all.  No mention was made of the attempt at betrayal the night before.  I barely heard the words themselves, but meaning was clear: it was time to choose.

“All who would see Rome fall, assemble beyond the gates!  Those who would claim freedom far from Rome or who would gladly return to its service, remain within these walls and await instruction!” Spartacus called and final preparations were made.

Medicus already rested within cart.  When I made attempt to look in on him, he barked at me to close fucking door and spare his pounding head further abuse from sun’s rays.  Yes, the old piss would be fine.

As would Euclid, who was equally as soured by self-blame at allowing last night’s meal pots to be served despite “seasoning.”

 _ ** **“Complaints at the stew’s blandness have been voiced,”****  _Moritus had spoken in his defense, _****“and Medicus approved the use of a few well-stocked flavorings.”****_

Moritus could be quite convincing in contrition.  Perhaps he genuinely had regretted tumbling those spices into the stew.  I had always found a little genuine emotion to aid my cause when attempting a larger deception.

Well, the greatest evils had been circumvented.  This time.  Removing saboteurs from our midst would assist in avoiding similar situations in the future.

As I gathered provisions for the journey toward the mountains in the east and the city beyond, one man and then another followed example.  Shouldering my satchel, I took a seat upon the portico and waited.  Calius, sword belted to his waist, joined me.  Pyrrhus and Peirastes.  Four others who had once been villa house slaves but now wielded weapons of war.  Eight of us.  Fighters.  Two more approached and I stood quickly to head them off.

“We accompany you,” Duro insisted as the caravan for Vesuvius lurched and shuffled and rolled upon dirt track.

Agron said nothing, hands fisted at his sides.

“For what purpose?” I challenged.

“You are our brother!” Duro squawked.

Gripping Duro’s shoulder, I said, “That is not enough.”

“What--fucking--we are not fucking good enough?”

My fingers dug into the meat of his arm.  “You stupid fuck.  Do you know why I fought Gordianus until the crowd called for the rudis?  Hm?  Because I realized I had choice!  And I chose to free a man.  I chose to place his fate into his own hands so that he might seek home, family, happiness.  To that purpose, I fought.  To that purpose, I yet fight.”

“What of our purpose?” Duro challenged.

“You have given your word to see these people to defensible position, to face Roman army beside them when all stand ready.  Had I vowed the same, I would accompany you, but my purpose stands apart.”

Duro gaped helplessly at me.  I could not bring myself to look at his brother.  “I must do this or I betray myself.  Do you understand my meaning?”

My young brother shook his head.  He understood, yet he rejected its conclusion: our paths must diverge.

“This is not your duty,” Agron told quietly.  “You did not take those villas.  You did not kill each fucking Roman dominus.”

“I would have,” I replied, staring at Duro’s trembling lower lip and quivering chin.  “But, had I yet been body slave to Marius when Spartacus set upon villa, I would have resented him for removing me from such comfort and security, position and respect.  I very well might have made attempt to end his life in retaliation.”  I offered a wry grin.  “House slaves are not gladiators, but they are fierce.”

Duro sputtered a choked laugh.  Yes, he knew of my ferocity.  It was indisputable.

Finding some measure of courage within me, I looked up into Agron’s eyes.  Green.  They were definitely green.  With my other hand, I sought the nape of his neck.  “You taught me to fight.  Both of you -- my brothers -- and Spartacus and Varro.  Doctore, Rabanus, the Veteran, Hamilcar, and Donar.  I am a warrior.  This is my cause.”

Agron’s teeth mashed together.  I could hear his molars grinding.

I summoned a bright grin.  “Kill many Romans,” I bid them both, “and our paths will cross again.”

With a tug -- just the slightest pressure from my hands -- they both fell against my shoulders, arms wrapping around me and I pushed my forehead to Duro’s shoulder.

Hissing a lungful of air between clenched teeth, Agron vowed, offered up his own cause: “Rome will burn.”

My teeth bared and jaw clenched, I agreed.  “I would witness it at your side.”

“See that you fucking do,” Duro snarled wetly.

“So long as you keep your fucking feet in battle, I shall,” I retorted.

He straightened, punched me in the shoulder, and gestured for Peirastes to accompany him to villa gate for private words.  To the sound of Duro’s stomping footsteps, Agron wrapped me up in his arms.  Completely.  Gently.  The man was ever so fucking delicate in his touch upon me.  How could I leave him?

How could I live with the failure if I did not?

“Fortune favored me,” he said into my ear, “the night we first broke words in that fucking cage.”  He leaned back, pressing his forehead to mine.  “I have never been prouder,” he sighed, “to know a man.”

My lips parted on an in-drawn breath and Agron hunched down.  Our eyes level, two free men on equal footing, he pressed a soft kiss to my lips.

A crack split the center of my chest.  My eyes burned.  I whispered a promise against his skin, the only vow I could hold to: “I will find you again when my task is done.”

His lips turned down in the corners -- a tight frown I knew well.  I’d overwhelmed him.  Again.  I petted his cheeks.  He nodded, sharp and brief.

And then he yanked himself from my grasp, pivoted on his heel, and marched away.

For a time, I watched.

Neither he nor Duro looked back.

A slight figure approached my side and I startled.  “Zaria.  You do not leave with Spartacus?”

She shook her head, watching the wagons and crowd of freed slaves move further distant.  “Though his cause is just, I am no fighter.  I am not like Naevia.”

Naevia, who had carved a Roman to pieces.  Naevia, who had assumed mantle of Medicus’ assistant.  Naevia, who had guarded her lover with knife in hand as the man had lain drugged and vulnerable.

No, Zaria was not like Naevia, but she was no less worthy of admiration.  The fact that she dared escape proved her courage.  She would weaken Rome: with each man and woman who slipped beyond Roman grasp, the Republic suffered bleeding wound.  Whether it knew of the loss or not.

“I will see you beyond the mountains and upon safe path,” I vowed, hardening my heart at the prospect of spending weeks -- _****months****_  -- so far from Agron and Duro.

She quickly released me from that promise.  “No, Brother Nasir.  Peirastes has already given his word on that and I have accepted.”

“So be it,” I replied with a weak smile.

“If the gods will it, yes.  So be it.”

Turning, I counted the number of people under my charge: thirty-one.  All were ready to depart, bedrolls tied up and satchels draped over shoulder.  Water skin in hand or upon belt if no weapon rested there.  Hoods, coats, boots or sandals.  They carried whatever possessions they could claim, whatever provisions would see them through a hard trek.

I told them: “We must move quietly and unseen or our venture will end.  Recapture leads to either nail-and-cross or the mines.  If your aim is to procure position in Roman domus, there will be opportunity to do so.  I ask only that you do not speak of those who travel with you.  Respect their hope for freedom.  Say whatever you like about Spartacus, but the men and women who are brave enough to make the perilous journey beyond Rome’s grasp deserve your silence.”

For a moment, no one spoke.  And then Vipio lifted his chin and swore: “I so swear.”

Moritus quickly followed example, as did Jusix, and one by one, all pledged to keep this small, vital secret.

Once I was satisfied, I ordered another sweep of the villa to ensure that all useful items were collected.  Of course nothing had been left behind -- not even salt in dusty cellar bins -- but I sought to give Spartacus, Agron, and Duro additional time to move beyond sight.  I would not have any among our group know which direction they had taken through the wooded roads.  In the event that we were captured, I alone knew of Spartacus’ intended destination and Agron’s plans to fortify their ranks.

It was an issue I intended to raise with Peirastes as soon as opportunity allowed.  We had set foot eastward, avoiding roads and crossing pasture and woodland with only moderate difficulty.  The following day we would surely reach the next major thoroughfare which connected Capua in the north to Nola in the south.  A perilous crossing.  Not only would we risk being sighted upon the road but also within the surrounding territory claimed by outlaws and brigands.

I urged Peirastes to scout our campsite with me, waiting until we had made a complete search of the area before gesturing for him to halt.

I spoke softly: “If we are captured and I am disarmed while I still draw breath, you must rob me of it.”

The man’s amber eyes narrowed.  “You would have me take your life?”

“You must.”  I was tired and hungry, but I made attempt at humor nonetheless: “An easier task than removing tongue, hands, eyes, and ears.”

He studied me for a moment.  “I would know your purpose in making request, but it is best I do not.”

“It is best,” I agreed.

He nodded.  “Should weapon yet remain in grasp or hands capable of purpose, I will see it done.”

“Gratitude.”

His lips flattened as he surveyed the landscape once more.  Nothing moved among the trees.  “No one could ever doubt you are of the Brotherhood.”

Whether it was a compliment or condemnation, only time would tell.

I took the first watch that night.  The night air was cool and everyone had found enough dry leaves to cover themselves with for warmth and camouflage.  The latter proved necessary when a group of thieves passed by not ten paces from the nearest of our group.  I kept silent vigil until they had moved on.  At midnight, I woke Pyrrhus for his shift.

Dawn arrived in a mist.  We pressed onward, following the steady rise of the land as we entered the foothills that stretched across distant horizon as seen from Capua.

Capua.  The ludus.  The arena.  It was hard to believe that I had left those sights far behind.

The mid morning sun succeeded in burning through the fog and we moved with more confidence up the slopes of the low mountains.  It was nearing dusk when we gained the peak.  I looked back through the trees and was greeted by the sight of Vesuvius to the southwest.  Would Agron and Duro have arrived at its slopes by now?  Had they found a place to make camp?  Were they safe?

Peirastes’ hand on my shoulder drew my attention back to the path ahead of us.

“A sight to behold,” I remarked vaguely.

For a moment, both his gaze and mine traversed the forested landscape.  Our brothers -- the rebellion -- was out there.  Somewhere.

The former gladiator chuckled.  “I pity those who must tolerate Agron’s temper in your absence.”

Varro had described Agron as a man absent sense when my return to the ludus had been delayed.  I had yet to learn any details of that time, but I could imagine: “Uncertainty makes monsters of us all.”

Peirastes agreed with a nod.  “By mid morning, Doctore had begun using threat of facing Agron in sparring to any of us that required… motivation.”

I frowned, unable to recall if I had seen anyone with serious injury upon my return.  “Did he not restrict his matches to Duro?”

“Either him or palus.  Doctore was not overly keen to see blood spilled absent necessity.”

A strong argument for my swift return to his arms, indeed.

It began raining in the middle of the night and the day’s journey stretched out miserably.  The only advantage we gained was lack of shepherds, outlaws, and fellow travelers to dodge.  Anyone with sense remained indoors or under shelter.  It was tempting to stop at the farmhouses and crossroad inns, follow their thin trails of smoke to warm hearths and dry clothes, but we pressed onward, reaching the outskirts of Beneventum just before evening.

Given the fact that every one of us bore brand of ownership, we could not risk entering the public baths to warm ourselves.  A group as large as ours would surely draw attention at any inn.  Plus there was the fact that many still wore the garb of slaves.  There was only one thing to be done.

Calius and I scouted the dreary, wet streets until we found what we sought: a neglected temple.

“Such a large group,” the priest assessed as we stood upon the portico awaiting invitation to enter.

I sighed.  “All that remains of our caravan.  We were set upon while traveling from Nola.  No warning--our wagons lost and we count ourselves lucky that the thieves were satisfied with those.”

The priest cast a gaze over our party.  “Well, you can recoup some losses in the slave market on the morrow.”

“If the creatures do not succumb to chill,” I noted.

The priest nodded thoughtfully.  “I would accept one in exchange for feeding and sheltering all for the night.”

I seethed.  “You truly follow the way of the gods -- spread cheeks and shove cock in ass!”  Spinning around, I gestured forth the men standing as my guards -- Peirastes, Pyrrhus, and Calius -- to lead everyone back out into the rain.

“Wait!” the priest called.  “A percentage then.”

I paused.

“Surely you plan to auction some of them in the city?”

Facing him again, I admitted, “I do.”

“Then leave some collateral--”  I did not miss how his gaze skittered toward Aria.  “--while you conduct your business tomorrow and share twenty percent of coin gained.”

I dismissed the outrageous price.  “Eight percent.  And I will select the collateral.”

“Fifteen.”  Again, the man’s gaze skimmed over Aria.  “Or, I might accept ten percent if I am permitted to make choice.”

Pursing my lips, I considered this long and hard, as any slaver in dire straits would.  “Ten percent and I will select one of three chosen by you.”

He held out his arm to shake on it.  As my brand was concealed beneath coat sleeve and the cuff tucked beneath bracer, I did not hesitate to accept his clasp.

“Pyrrhus,” I barked, “bring them in.”

The bargain saw everyone to warmth within and without.  The priest, however, had very little to do with it.  I sat with him, drinking wine as my “guards” supervised the efforts of the “merchandise” to cook evening meal and dry their clothes.

“Where are the temple servants?” I asked idly.

“I find myself in need,” the man admitted and I tucked the information away for safekeeping before I began asking after the citizens of the town itself.  I muttered as if making unimportant conversation, but it was far from it.  I wasn’t the only one heeding the priest’s words; Peirastes avidly followed our discussion with attention seemingly diverted.  We drank until the man passed out, then I set Peirastes to guard him as I broke words with the others.

“This is Beneventum.  You have heard of it?”  All had.  It was a city of some sophistication despite its distance from Rome and Capua.  Not a poor choice for a new life under Roman rule.  “Will you stay or press onward?”

Details were quickly sorted, roles assigned, directions given.  Before dawn and -- more importantly -- before the temple priest woke, those who were determined to seek freedom retreated to the foothills.  Peirastes, Calius, and I escorted our “wares” to the slave market.  I remembered the horrid stench of the cells from my periodic visits to Capua’s in search of workers for Marius’ fields.  

“You are new to Beneventum,” the clerk bluntly challenged me.

I sent the man an irritated glance.  “A change of venue.  Spartacus and his shits harass travelers upon the roads south of Capua.”

“Ah.  You’re not the first to lose wares to that Thracian fuck.”

With a sneer, I registered my name -- a fiction I concocted from my memory of the slavers I had crossed paths with since leaving my first master’s domus.  “Fucking murdering thief,” I agreed with genuine heat, my mind turning back to the moment I’d gained senses within a slaver’s wagon, pressed tightly against so many others.  Condemned.  Discarded.  Romans did not even dispose of the sponge used to wipe shit from ass so readily.

Despising my roll of Syrian slaver, I nonetheless played my part; I had promised to do my best to see these men and women to respectable homes.  I gave detailed description of each slave’s skills and attributes and, with offering of coin, asked the clerk who I could expect to attend the auction.  I left Calius to guard the slaves and sent Peirastes to locate Pyrrhus and Zaria in the marketplace where they had been sent to make subtle inquiries of notable Roman families.  The ones who held honorable standing and those… not so much.

I stood by, seemingly happy to meet prospective buyers, answer questions, and snarl at the men and women under my charge to stand and present themselves.  My stomach lurched every time I gave command to disrobe, but it was unavoidable.

Occasionally, Romans gave me a lingering look as if I were an unexpected puzzle.  “I have not seen you here before,” one man observed.

“An astute observation.  I am perhaps the first of many driven eastward due to unrest in Capua.”

“Hm.  Spartacus,” the Roman commented.

I spat upon the floor.

The man grinned and nodded toward Moritus.  “This man.  How has he been trained?”

It was almost too easy to smile at the Roman as I extolled the slave’s virtues.  When the market was called to order and bidders retreated to the square, Calius dared to move close enough to bump my arm.  With a start, I realized that Calius had never been sold at market.  He had been born into the house of Marius’ father and presented to my former dominus when the man had declared intent to reside at the villa outside of Capua.  Calius had never seen the cells of a slave market.

I placed a hand on his shoulder, willing him to be strong just a little longer.

As a newcomer to Beneventum’s market, I was given an afternoon slot.  This was unfortunate as people would be less likely to part with coin under a hot sun.  Additionally, they would be tired from standing upon feet for hours.  Bellies empty as well.  It would be up to me, then, to entice overheated and disgruntled Romans to make purchase.

When the clerk waved me up onto the stage, I nodded for Calius to lead our people up for viewing.  “Gentle ladies and good gentlemen of Beneventum, I present to you fair of face and capable hands ready to serve the noblest of households!”

I began with Vipio -- experience in managing a Roman household and villa accounts, well-spoken, educated, eager to receive instruction and bring honor to his master.

The bidding began.  I made a timely jest and Vipio grinned helplessly; I was struck by how it transformed the man’s face.  “And such beautiful teeth!  Is this smile not more pleasant to look upon than that of a guard’s?”

Calius glowered at me in offense.  Laughter rippled though the crowd.  Another bid came.

“Ah, yes.  Beneventum knows the value of pleasing things, yes?”  Looking to Calius, I drawled, “And the necessity of those which make cock wither on sight.”

More laughter.  I kept an eye on Pyrrhus and Zaria, waiting until a bid was called that prompted them to nod.  A good family, finally.

“Sold!” I declared.  “To a household which shall be well served and illuminated with bright smiles.”

I paused for applause as Vipio was unlocked from the length of chain and taken from the stage.  I moved on to Moritus.  Again, I stirred the crowd with humor, tempting them with Moritus’ sweet manner and unwavering obedience to instruction.  I had the man sing a tune I knew he was skilled at and then had him turn about to flex his powerful back and shoulders.  Calling a volunteer from the audience, Moritus provided a brief but pleasing massage.

As the bids came forth, I waited until Zaria nodded before ceasing my efforts and accepting the offer.  Thus I saw Moritus to his new home.  He would work hard, but hopefully would not suffer mistreatment.

I did the same for the others, charming the gathering of Romans until the market place was packed with bystanders who came merely to enjoy the show.

Every one of my charges were purchased by respectable families.  Truly a miracle.  I collected coin and unlocked the shackles upon the wrists of the last woman, Aria.  “Serve your new master well and bring them much honor,” I commanded in lieu of a farewell.  Given the watchful eyes, I could not risk more.

The final batch of slaves to be brought out were ragged things.  Worn and lacking in spirit.  Surely, they were bound for the mines.  I knew I should keep the coin and pass it on to the others who would continue overland through the mountains, but there was a boy and girl who stood closer together than the others.  A brother and sister, I had overheard being said in the cages.  I thought of Agron and Duro.  I thought of my brother: **_**“** **Nasir!”**_**

I could not leave them.  My bid caused a ripple of surprise, but no one countered my offer.  The brother and sister kept heads bowed as their shackles were removed.  “Follow,” I instructed.  Calius and Peirastes fell in step with us.  Zaria and Pyrrhus blended back into the crowd; they would meet with the group who waited to begin journey toward freedom.

On a quiet street, I gestured for my acquisitions to stop and my “guards” to keep watch.

“Would you stay in this city?  If so, there is a small temple with a priest of middle years who may take you and make use of your services.”

The boy reached for his sister’s hand.  She nodded.  “Yes, sir.  Our mother serves a family here.”

“If it is within my power, then you shall remain near her.”

“You are no slaver,” the boy accused, a flicker of defiance blazing briefly in his eyes and oh how I wished I could place a blade in this youth’s grasp.

“I just sold men and women to Romans in the marketplace.  Did I not?”

They could not deny that I had.  But neither had I truly denied accusation.  Instead, I poured some water from the skin I carried and wiped the dirt from their faces.  I twisted their hair -- filthy with oil -- into some semblance of order, cutting two lengths of cord from the laces of my coat to tie back the locks.  The loss of fastenings caused the coat to gape open just enough to reveal the edge of my scar.  Seeing it, the boy’s eyes widened.

I told them both: “Serve the priest well.  Make yourselves indispensable.”

They nodded and there was nothing left to do except fulfill the bargain I had set.  Or some equivalent of it.

The priest squinted at me when I returned to the temple.  Clearly, he had a headache from overindulgence.

“You fucking cheat!” he accused.  “You promised the use of one of your slaves.”

I rolled my eyes.  “And much use you would have had for her in your condition.”

He grunted.

“In gratitude for your hospitality, I offer two servants.”  Gesturing them forward, the siblings presented themselves.  “They will serve you well and provide many comforts.”

The man seemed pleased initially, but then he took in the state of their tattered clothing.  “You offer additional expense.”

I pressed a stack of coins into the priest’s hand.  “Five percent.  It should be more than enough to replenish your stocks and see your servants to proper dress.  Citizens of such a prestigious city would be pleased to visit a temple that industrious hands have cleaned and polished.  And be greeted by gentle smiles and youthful beauty.”

“Hm.  Indeed.”  The man calculated the potential profits and finally nodded with satisfaction.  “Your debt is paid, slaver.  My the gods show you much favor.”

“And you, friend.”

I briefly met the gaze of the brother and sister as I commanded my guards to accompany me.  I regretted not being able to take them with me, but two more mouths to feed would be hardship enough without hands capable of wielding weapon.  Perhaps, one day, either I or Spartacus would come here and liberate those who wished to fight.  That day was not this day.

No, this day was a day for farewells.

Rejoining our group in the foothills, I told: “Spartacus’ name is known here, but his acts are not felt.”  We had counted no great number of soldiers in the town; Glaber was still confining his efforts to Capua.  “If you strike north and keep to the woods, you may reach the Alps within three -- perhaps four -- weeks of hard travel.  I am for the west to rejoin the fight against Rome.  Peirastes?”

“I will deliver these people to freedom.”

I handed over the coin received from the sales at slave market.  He took the pouch and offered his arm.  We shook.  Zaria came forward.  We embraced.

“You saved me, brother,” she whispered tearfully.

I shook my head against her silken hair.  “No.  I but offered key.  Once shackles fell away, you saved yourself.”

She sniffled.  I pressed a kiss to her temple.  When I stepped back, she turned away.  I let her go to Peirastes’ side and silently marveled at all Agron had taught me.  He’d taught me how to be a fighter, a brother, a free man.  He’d changed me.  I missed him.  I needed him.  Both him and Duro.

“Gratitude.”

I startled and smiled at Jusix.  “None deserved,” I replied, “when setting wrong to right.”

“I doubted you,” he admitted and I did not tell of what I had overheard that night in villa’s yard.  “Moritus never did.”

The man’s tone contained a question that I answered as best I could: “He serves a good family now.”

With a nod, Jusix offered his arm.  I clasped it.  And then I turned away.

Calius and Pyrrhus joined me.  I did not ask if they were certain.  They knew the risks.  They knew there would be no battle absent death.  They chose to fight; I would not attempt to diminish the choice they claimed with both hands.  We were all free men.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was one thing that I felt could have been addressed by the TV show: slavery was a fact of life in the ancient world. On the surface of it, the show looks like it’s about slavery versus freedom, but I think the writing was vague enough to allow for slavery to go on in the background. For sure, Gauls had their own slaves, and so did Celts and Germans and so forth.
> 
> I’m not going to get into a discussion on slavery itself. But I wanted to present Vipio’s and Moritus’ points of view -- how scary it would be for them to start over in a new land with no friends or patron or benefactor or social network of any kind. You can decide for yourself if they’ve made the right call. (I’m just trying not to use today’s standards to judge the system and available choices during that time period.)
> 
> (And, actually, I think “Moritus” stays with the rebels in the TV show. I may have caught a glimpse of him somewhere between 2x06 and 2x09 in the background, but it looks like he’s lost a bit of weight so, clearly, the life of a rebel was not one of comfort.)
> 
> Regarding Nasir’s slaver act in Beneventum: if not for Spartacus causing havoc and confusion in general around Capua, I suspect it would have been A LOT harder for Nasir to impersonate a slaver at market. But we all know how smart and brave he is, so he drops some names and acts the part and maybe pickings have been slim lately because of the growing slave rebellion so it works out. Very, very luckily.


	6. Captured

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: GORE (violence), CHARACTER DEATH (implied... but yeah it totally happens)
> 
> I recommend having some tissues on hand. This chapter hits pretty hard.
> 
> Music Rec: "Battle Cry" by Imagine Dragons

 

Soldiers.

This had always been a risk, a threat, a nightmare.  The three of us lived it now.  Had been living it for the past two days as our supplies had dwindled and red-caped Romans stalked us through the countryside.  Calius did not ask what they would do to us if we were caught.  Pyrrhus did not argue for rushing the nearest line and meeting death with glory.  I kept a tight grip upon each man’s arm as we hid in a leaf-filled hollow where a massive tree had been uprooted by a storm some seasons past.

How had they known?  How had the soldiers known we would be wandering south of Reginus’ villa?  Had the abandoned villa already been discovered?  The absence of Seppius’ patrol that Duro had told me of had certainly been noticed weeks ago, but how had Glaber known we continued to move _****south?****_   Our supply raids upon the road had been too obvious?  Outlaws had sighted Spartacus and had exchanged whispers for coin?

At the moment, it did not matter by what means Glaber’s men had come by the information.  They were here, a visible line that patrolled the landscape between us and Vesuvius.  If this number of soldiers continued to roam the area, Spartacus’ camp would be found long before Agron and Duro’s plans for Neapolis could come to fruition.

Fuck.

I thought of the walled village of Atella.  Just beyond these wooded hills.  There was food which we badly needed.  This morning we had each consumed the last of our rations.  Our water skins were empty.

We were out of time.

Agron and Duro had watched me pack my bag.  They would know how many days’ worth of provisions I could carry.  Even if I had successfully replenished supplies in Beneventum, they would know my food would not last beyond five days.  Tomorrow would be the eighth.  If I did not find my brothers, they would seek me out.  They would encounter the line of Roman soldiers.  They would fight.  A battle that might end in wounds.  Or death.  Or capture.

Capture stood the greatest threat: how could anyone expect either Agron or Duro to hold tongue with Glaber’s sword tilted against the neck of his brother?  Rebel camp’s location, plans for Neapolis, the rebellion itself!  The survival of our cause stood poised upon the brink.

Fuck the gods.

There remained but one option: I must lead Glaber’s men away.  If I could reach Atella and cause disruption, perhaps enough soldiers would break formation to apprehend me, allowing Calius and Pyrrhus through to Vesuvius to warn Spartacus and the others of the blockade.

Agron and Duro would never forgive me for this, but I could not send Calius or Pyrrhus in my place.  They would be slain absent hesitation, but the Syrian Nasir...  Glaber might yet desire for me to meet my end in the arena, a message to all house slaves who dared to dream of grasping weapon and fighting Rome.

My knowledge of the rebels’ location and the plans for Neapolis -- I had asked Peirastes to end my life for the sake of keeping these secrets.  But.  Perhaps it would be best for Spartacus and my brothers to shift position and aims given how close Glaber’s men were to the foot of the mountain.  My capture would provide the signal for them to abandon both Vesuvius and Neapolis.  Yes, perhaps that was for the best.  The greater good.

The sound of heavy footsteps crunched through the dry leaves not far away.  My stomach rumbled.

The footsteps paused.  I pressed myself tighter against the rocks and roots beneath me and begged my body to be silent.

A bird chirped.

The forest throbbed with windless silence.

The footsteps resumed.  Approached.  Passed.  Faded.

I would not have a better opportunity.

Squirming close to Calius and Pyrrhus, I hissed, “Make for Vesuvius.  Rejoin Spartacus.  I am for Atella to draw the soldiers away.  Wait for a break in the line.”

“No!” Calius whispered.

Pyrrhus argued, “Your Germans will kill us both if we leave you to such a fate.”

“My fate is to die.  As is that of all men.  This is my choice.”  Seeing they were unmoved, I pressed, “Give report to Spartacus.  To Duro, tell him to keep his fucking feet.  To Agron, say--”  I drew a deep breath.  “--say but a word: always.”

They stared at me with wide, sorrowful eyes.  I bit back a laugh.  “I am not dead yet.  Now see to your charge.  Opportunity will come tomorrow evening at latest.”

I rolled carefully, tumbling the dry leaves into the hollow I’d lain in since the evening before.  Casting gaze about, finding nothing but trees and late afternoon sunlight, I quietly made my way along the east-facing slope of the hill.  I would have to gain entrance to the village before nightfall or be forced to find a way over the formidable walls.

The greatest challenge would be crossing the flat plain that surrounded the settlement without being seen.  Frankly, in daylight, that stood an impossible task.  So, I must find a way in that _****relied****_  on being seen.

Working my way toward the road that cut through the hills, I waited.  The sunlight had thickened to pure gold before I saw the wagon.  It was rickety and the horses that pulled it too old.  The young driver scowled and his guard was long of years.

Perfect.  I retied my hair, tucking the swaying length beneath my coat and wrapping the garment tighter around my chest.  I waited until they had passed, then approached from back.  A series of deep ruts, hardened by a lack of rain in recent days, caused the wagon to slow nearly to a halt and I scrambled beneath it, sliding my spear along the space between axles and cart, and then wedged myself against the undercarriage.

And then I prayed for my strength to hold out.

An age passed before the vehicle rumbled through the gates of Atella.  My hands had long since cramped shut and my feet were numb, but I clutched to the underside of the cart as the horses were unhitched and the men sought their rest, either at the inn or a residence.  Darkness slowly -- very slowly -- fell.  I passed the time thinking of rebellion, Roman blood, Marius’ capture, Naevia’s blood-smeared hands, Agron’s proud smile, Duro’s genuine regret at not having crossed paths with my former dominus upon the road south.

I thought of Agron being chased through a small, Germani village by irate goats.  Duro’s laugh.  Agron’s lips upon my neck.

I shivered.

By the gods.  The mere thought of the man generated heat more than sufficient to defeat night’s chill.

_****“Return to my arms.”** ** _

It was all he’d ever asked of me.  I would do everything in my power to make it so.

I waited until evening meal fires were banked and the village settled before I lowered myself to the ground, wincing as dried manure and other filth pressed against my hair and clothing.  Flexing arms and legs to ease tired, aching muscles, I cast my gaze around, staring between the solid, wooden wheels to take count of enemies.  I spotted seven red cloaks, which meant there were easily twice that number within the walls.

There would be far fewer by the time dawn kissed the horizon.

Collecting my spear, I silently rolled free of wagon’s concealing bulk and sought the darkest shadows.  The village was small, but I scouted it carefully, taking note of possible escape routes over the wall.  Still, the drop was intimidating.  I would surely break a leg making attempt to flee over its height.

A last resort, then.

Glaber’s men patrolled the streets at somewhat regular intervals.  I chose a conveniently dark alley and waited for the next man to pass by.

Ten minutes later, head of spear erupted through his neck.  I dragged him into the space between houses, aided by his own stumbling feet.  He grabbed for the sword at this side, nearly drew it, but it would not have made a difference.  I was too far beyond his reach and his lungs had already filled with blood.  His death was silent.

As was the next man’s.

And the next.

Three dead Romans and the alley was at capacity.  I sought another.  Speared two more.

The guards at the gate would notice the lack of patrol soon.  I made my way toward the village square and snarled at the problem presented: two guards stationed on the ground and two upon the wall, all with a clear view of the square.  A stealthy approach would be impossible.

Fuck.

Well, I was not yet done spilling Roman blood.  If I wished to continue, I would have to be patient.

Sure enough, within half an hour, the guards at the gate were sent to investigate their missing comrades.  Killing two at once would not present much difficulty, though I was not optimistic enough to believe I could manage it in silence.

I shadowed them to a narrow street, ghosted up a set of stairs, launched myself at one man.  Sensing me, he turned, sword drawn, but my spear found its mark in his chest.  I bore him down and kicked out toward the second man, sending him slamming into nearby wall.

Feet planted upon ground, I yanked barb from the chest of the first and slashed open the throat of the second.

But not before his shout of warning echoed through the maze of streets.

I darted back into the shadows.

A call to arms.  The bang of a door slamming open.  The sounds of running footsteps: five, ten, perhaps more.  How many could I kill?

Agron’s proud smile flashed across my memory and I knew that if I but took care, any and all would fall before me.

It was a very long night.  More than once, I was forced to retreat to the top of the wall, lay my spear along it and flatten myself to its surface to avoid capture.  Oh, I was certain I would be captured, but not yet.  Not quite yet.

With the dawn, my deepening exhaustion was banished.  I watched from a rooftop as the remaining men -- a mere seven -- decided to dispatch four of their number to collect reinforcements from the barricade to hunt down the “rebel shits” hiding within these walls.  They closed and locked the gates.  I took opportunity to steal a loaf of cooling bread from the baker’s windowsill and collect three eggs from a chicken coup.  I rested behind a dung heap until the sounds of the gate opening roused me from my doze.

Noon.

It was time to kill again.

Returning to vantage point over the square, my brows rose.  No less than thirty men marched into the village.  They must believe Spartacus himself was here.

They probably did; Pyrrhus stood among them as hostage.  He was beaten, bloodied, but he yet moved under his own strength.

And Calius?  I did not see him.  I hoped this meant he had made it through to the camp Agron had vowed to build at Vesuvius.

A soldier stepped forward.  The ornamentation of his armor was not that of a praetor, but he was clearly the commander of this unit.

“Spartacus!” he shouted.

No one answered, though plenty of villagers peeped out through shutters.

“Spartacus, show yourself and submit to capture, or your man’s life is forfeit.”

A not unexpected threat.  I bared my teeth in fury nonetheless as a blade was angled beneath Pyrrhus’ chin.  Fuck.  I had hoped to draw this out a little longer.

Perhaps, if I…

The brick under my hand was loose.  I rocked it free of its mortar in silence, took aim, and hurled it toward the center of the formation.  I was already moving away from rooftop’s edge and scaling down the window sills to the rear alley, heedless of the wide eyes of the people who watched from the relative safety of their homes.  They would be able to identify me.

Just as well.  It would only aid in proving that the assailant was no Thracian.

The streets were immediately flooded with Romans.  I doubled back, squeezed through a tiny space between walls, and dived for the bottom of the cart I had arrived under.  How long would it take them to find me?  Or to renew their threat upon Pyrrhus?

Soldiers searched the streets, returning empty-handed.  Their commander called for every house to be inspected.  In short order, the crash of tables and beds being overturned and their owners’ indignant shouts filled the air.

“Commander!” one soldier called as he trotted out into the square.  “Many villagers report that a man dark of skin and hair has been seen.”

The commander rounded on Pyrrhus.  “You spoke of Spartacus taking refuge here.”

“Spartacus?” the young man wheezed.  “No.  You asked after my rebel leader… and you made assumptions.”

The commander drew a calming breath.  I was surprised by his restraint.  “Who leads you?”

Even from here, I could see Pyrrhus’ lips quirk.  “A man Glaber would have fall in the arena.  A house slave that Batiatus made into a gladiator.”

“The Syrian Nasir,” the commander growled.

Pyrrhus coughed, winced.  “Numerius Calavius had him beaten and put to cart for the mines.  Nasir killed the slavers, all of them, then returned to Capua to take his revenge upon his own patron.”  Pyrrhus shrugged, cocky and confident.  “I am but one of hundreds -- thousands -- who know his name and his legend.”

Fuck.  No.  I begged Pyrrhus to close his mouth.  Nothing good would befall him if he continued along this vein.

“And how would his legend suffer if it became known he stood by and watched as his devotee was nailed to cross?”

Pyrrhus lifted his face, the angle of his chin defiant.  I burned to reveal myself -- snarled in silence at the time I was forced to purchase for Calius… if the man had managed to make it through the blockade at all.

“Rome can cut my heart from breast and wrap it in chains, yet it will still be the heart of a free man,” Pyrrhus hissed.

Oh, would that Peirastes could witness his student’s courage.

As the town was scoured, I tracked the progress of the soldiers, waiting until a nearby nook was taken into account before I seized chance to change location.  By the time a soldier got down on hands and knees to peer beneath wagon’s cart, I was moving through the lengthening shadows.

I felled five more soldiers this way.  When my spear lodged in the throat of the sixth, a pair of soldiers turned the nearby corner and I was seen.

Fuck.

How long could I run before the commander used Pyrrhus against me?  I could surrender now, or I could run until cornered.  I could fall upon my own weapon, or I could charge the Romans and die by their blade.  I could wait until threat upon Pyrrhus’ life was made, or I could look the commander in the eye as a free man.

Teeth bared, I dodged down an alley, turned a tight corner, scaled window sills to rooftop.  Leaped from one to the other.  Chaos reigned in the streets and I grinned.  Just as I was sure Pyrrhus was grinning.  We had caused this.  Two men of small stature and no citizenship.  That we stood capable of sending Romans into a fluster of impotent fury was one of the greatest pleasures of my life.

But.  This was not my sole aim.  I would have more from the fucking Republic.

Through the maze of alleys, I wove.  Knocking down any soldier who darted into my path.  How many lived and how many perished, I gave no shit.  I tumbled out of the alley, ducking beneath the swing of a Roman sword, and somersaulted into the center of the square.

Gained feet and planted spear to ground, I held my head high.  “I am called Nasir.”

The commander blinked at me, measuring me as all men have done.  Though he was not a tall man -- no more remarkable than Glaber himself -- he stood taller than me.

“Nasir,” the commander replied, lifting his fist and giving the signal for his troops to halt advance.  “I am called Marcus, Tribune to Praetor Gaius Claudius Glaber.”

“A hard-earned position.”

“As is yours.”

“Blood, sweat, pain.”

“The same,” he agreed.

“The difference stands coin,” I concluded.

His eyes narrowed.  “Were coin the sum of your desires, you would have robbed these homes in the night, slitting throats, and escaped with the dawn.”

I acknowledged this, tilting my head to the side.  “Therefore, it is not coin I seek.”

“Revenge?”

I grinned, enjoying our discussion.  “Would a man who thirsted for revenge reveal himself with so many Romans yet alive and within spear’s reach?”

“No.  No, he would not.”  Awareness flickered in the man’s eyes.  Ah, yes.  He’d come to the conclusion that I had intended: I fought not for myself but for some greater purpose, a purpose which inspired revolution.  He could have me killed here and make me a martyr, or he could present me to his praetor and send a message to all.

I was not surprised to be relieved of spear and hands shackled.  Pyrrhus and I were marched to Capua, and though we faced certain public humiliation and death I was pleased: Marcus had not sent his men back to the barricade.  Spartacus would have time in abundance to locate more advantageous position.

What did surprise me was our destination: we were taken to the house of Batiatus.

The ludus gate still creaked the same as I remembered, though the ludus itself now garrisoned Glaber’s men.  The stench was worse than I recalled and I wondered when the baths had last been emptied.

Pyrrhus and I were tossed into a familiar cage which contained two occupants: a badly whipped and branded Doctore and an emaciated Varro.

My heart crumbled at the sight of him: he was weak from many days of imprisonment and meager sustenance.  The proud, smiling, powerful gladiator who had trained me and told of his lovely wife and darling son was now a faded shade of former glory.

I gave no indication that I recognized either man and Pyrrhus followed my example.  I sat upon the bench where Agron had once held me close in slumber and I nearly wept.  Nearly.

Though it appeared as if all gains had been lost -- as if every battle and every injury had been suffered in vain -- I knew it to be untrue.  Agron and Duro lived and fought.  Spartacus had sparked a rebellion that Glaber stood too inept to crush.  Peirastes and Zaria and so many others breathed free air.  Vipio and Mortius had been given a second chance.  The brother and sister stood safe from the mines… at least for a time.

As badly as I wished I could guide each and every man and woman to the destiny of their choice, I knew I did not possess that power.  Or any right to it.  All I could do was fight, present choice, and trust these people to discover and grasp their own sense of purpose with both fucking hands.

I stared at mine.  I could not look at Varro without feeling their trembling weakness.

Footsteps, uneven and heavy, approached.  A man leaned upon the bars of the cage and though I did not turn to face him, I felt his grin.  Recognized the feel of it crawling over my skin.

“Ah, Nasir, how it pains me to see a brother so rudely treated,” Ashur drawled.  “You will be skinned in the arena for all to see and hear your screams.  Even you will not be able to hold your tongue when they begin to peel--”

I wondered if the soldiers ate the same gruel and porridge and lumpy stew that we once had.  That might explain the reek of human waste; the flickering torches could only burn away so much of the stench.  I wondered if time spent in these cells made Roman soldiers feel like animals.  Did they eat with the same fingers that had scratched ass?  I wondered how close Glaber’s men were to mutiny.  Or were they appeased with cunt?  I wondered--

_****Clang!** ** _

A palm striking iron grate.

Glancing toward Ashur, I took in his flushed snarl.  Ah, he did not appreciate my talent for ignoring his words.  Regardless, I was impressed by neither his show of temper nor his pithy threats.

I imagined Duro beside me, bumping my elbow with his own: _****“Show these shits the measure of your cock!”****_

“You will come to regret not heeding my counsel,” Ashur predicted darkly, storming off as well as a man could with a limp.

Beside me, Pyrrhus shuddered.  Swallowed thickly.  He looked pale.

“Cast thoughts to other matters,” I advised.  The Romans would kill us in whatever way most benefited or entertained them.  There was little comfort to be found in that truth.

Taking in our surroundings and finding them absent unwelcome watchers, I leaned toward Varro.  “Your wife and son?” I breathed.

“I have not laid eyes upon them since our capture.”  He glanced to Doctore.

The man supplied: "Twenty-five days.”

My teeth gritted together behind lips drawn back in a brief snarl.  Fuck the gods.

“Have you any idea where they were taken?”

Varro opened his mouth, closed it, and glared up at the ceiling.

Befuddled by his reaction, I prompted, “Varro?”

Casting furious gaze toward the wall, he shook his head in enraged silence.

“Close ears to Ashur’s taunts,” Doctore advised him.

Taunts.  Yes, “the fucking Syrian” was skilled at delivering those.  And I could imagine what sort of filth had spewed from his mouth: allusions to torment and death.  The man was a hunter of vulnerabilities and he had been given more than enough time and opportunity to learn Varro’s.

“Your wife and son love you,” I reminded.  “Hold to that and draw strength.”

He laughed, air gusting past his cracked lips.  “Nasir.”  For a moment, I did not understand why he felt the need to utter my name as if it were an answer to some unvoiced question.  He then said, “You are a man of uncommon goodness.”

Ah, Nasir.  Not Tiberius.  Perhaps he spoke truth: in reclaiming my name, I had found myself.  “Few Romans would hold such sentiment.”

“Fuck them,” Varro retorted with a grin.  The expression quickly faded, however.  Leaning his head back against the wall, he murmured, “I sometimes wonder -- were I meant to die at that celebration?  Would it have--”

“No.  You lived to hold your wife and son again, did you not?”

He nodded.  “For ten blissful days.  Until Janus came down with a fever on the road to Cicilia and we sought room at an inn.”  He sighed: “And I sought the dice.  Two Roman soldiers joined the group, noticed the gladius I wore, and…”  He angled his bare, right arm for me to see the brand of Batiatus.  “Careless,” he scolded himself.  “Foolish.”

“As I am here with you, let me be called the same, brother,” I offered with a wry look.

Varro huffed and a measure of weight lifted from his slumped shoulders.

“You were wounded,” Doctore assessed, his gaze lowering to my side and scar’s edge.

“Many weeks ago,” I admitted.  “Here in this house.”  At Doctore’s insistent glare, I elaborated on the ordeal: from the Calavius domus to slave cart to ludus and the death of Numerius by my will though not by my hand.  Fucking Roman sword wound.

A flicker of life entered Varro’s eyes.  He gestured for me to reveal a bit more of the injury.  “By the gods, you heal quickly.”

“By hand of Medicus,” I corrected.  “And Naevia.”

Doctore’s eyes narrowed.  “She is found?”

“She lives, reunited with Crixus, yes.”

“And your brothers?” Varro pressed.  I had taken a sword between ribs for them; no wonder he was startled that they stood absent my company now.

I sighed.  “Will be most displeased with me, but I will gladly await their scolding in the afterlife.”

“You ever speak of your own death,” Varro noted with a weak chuckle.

I arched a brow.  “Have not the odds always favored it?”

“And you have beaten them every time.”

Ah, Varro.  Ever the gambler.

Four bowls of sludge were carelessly dropped into the cage.  The contents tasted of piss.  I thought of Duro and Agron and the one trip to the arena that we three had taken together.  Pyrrhus winced through each bite and my lips twitched with humor.

“Welcome to the ludus,” I murmured.

He shuddered.  “This shit?  Every day?”

“It is worse in the arena.”

Pyrrhus gagged.  I forced the rest of my portion down and set the bowl aside.  On the pretense of checking Pyrrhus’ face for serious injury -- though there was little I could do for him if he suffered significant wound.  I mumbled very quietly, “Did you see Calius fall?”

“No,” he muttered behind his spoon.  “I believe he made it through.”

Glad news and dreadful, both.  Glad because Spartacus would know of Glaber’s movements.  Dreadful because Agron and Duro would learn of my plan to distract the soldiers by causing upheaval in Atella.  They would set foot to path and discover from the inhabitants that I had been taken.  They would hold intent to follow.  But if any man stood capable of talking sense into the two of them, it was Spartacus.  There was a reasonable chance they would not get themselves killed in making vain attempt on Glaber.

And then I recalled Spartacus’ own hatred of the praetor, the third and final man deserving of the Thracian’s vengeance.

Fuck the fucking gods.  Spartacus and my German brothers were coming.  The only uncertainty was whether I would yet draw breath with which to greet them.

The clatter of footsteps descending stairs.  The shriek of ludus gate.  Moments later, Marcus came to a stop in front of our cage flanked by half a dozen soldiers.  The clink of iron shackles made the man’s announcement unnecessary: “You are summoned.”

Indeed we were.  To a fucking Roman celebration.

For some unfathomable reason, Duro’s ignorant declaration -- _****“Lucky fucks.”****  _\-- echoed inappropriate and grossly inaccurate across the extravagance.  A sensual display of glistening, painted, writhing bodies -- an unending, serpentine orgy set to music.  Tables overflowing with delicacies.  Nude house slaves displaying pert breasts and heavy cocks circulated the room with enticing platters.

And Romans.  Many Romans.  And not the backward fucks who scratched and spat for provincial office, but senators of Rome itself meandered through the atrium that had once belonged to Quintus Lentulus Batiatus.  The man would have spent every last one of his gladiators in effort to attain such spectacle within these walls.

The four of us -- Doctore, Varro, Pyrrhus, and myself -- were made to kneel upon hard stone, feet and chests bare.  We had been provided subligaria and shackles only.  I fought the urge to fist my hands; I had killed slavers with wrists shackled.  It was the weight of iron collar upon my neck that caused rage to curdle in belly.

Glaber stepped forward.  Preened at the arrangement of rebels he had managed to procure through the efforts of those under his command.  The other politicians seethed with jealousy at the coup that the little cockless sparrow had arranged.

Our lives were offerings to Praetor Varinius to avenge some Roman fuck’s death or other.  I gave no shit as to the man’s name.  Nor did it matter whose sword had robbed him of life.  We were all four of us to be executed in the arena.  They said it was justice.  What piss and shit.  Glaber would kill us simply because he could.

Death upon the sands.  As if I had ever expected differently.

Perhaps Doctore would be satisfied with this, perhaps relieved, perhaps he longed to return to the sands that had so defined his life.

I imagined Varro was resigned to the sentence but determined to overcome it.  I had heard Spartacus’ first fight in the arena had proved such a thing possible.

Pyrrhus… I pitied the boy.  The terror he must be battling.  Terror I had once faced myself: _****the arena!****_

And yet, as certain and merciless as the sentence was, one irked Roman objected that it was not enough.  On behalf of slain cousin Sextus, he would see punishment exacted this night.

Men and women of note converged upon the challenge like vultures scenting rot.  A silkily-spoken argument commenced… and middle ground was swiftly reached:

“Choose a single man and let us make sport of him in memory of your cousin.”

“A most judicious compromise!”

Glaber strolled forward, as ever garbed in his regalia.  Perhaps he did not know how to be a man outside of its embrace.  “Seppius is not the only one who stands injured.  The gods themselves took note of the horrors inflicted upon Lucretia and pluck her from the shores of the afterlife to voice their desires.  Should she not choose what blood is shed beneath roof she once claimed her own?”

There were no objections.  On the contrary, there were murmurings of titillated approval.

My pulse leaped as if it might race from this very domus and take all four of us with it, but the chains and shackles -- neck, wrists, feet -- held us fast to their whims.

No, oh no.  Not here.  Not like this.  Death _****should not--must not--could not****_  take one of us like this!

Glaber raised arms and voice to claim the attention of all guests.  He decreed: “Varinius has seen fit to allow us a taste of the blood to come.  A single man to be sacrificed to this house, where so many lives were stolen by Spartacus and his jackals, to be chosen by its former domina, the gods themselves guiding her hand!”

Applause, refined and sickening, propelled Lucretia forward, expression vacant and one pale hand raised as an ax about to fall.

I would be chosen.  Surely.  It would be me.  Spartacus had begun the revolt, had offended and humiliated so many -- the very same man who had trained and encouraged me.  I would be the one used for sport… this was the very fate I had somehow dodged through bizarre turn of events some months ago at Numerius’ celebration.

But I had not escaped.  Not truly.  The date had merely been pushed back so that I might savor the sweetness of strength and hope and love and victory.  It now made my defeat all the more bitter and pitiful.  No, the gods had not forgotten how I had come between Varro and the Ferryman.  The punishment I had earned that night would come to bear now.

_****Apologies, my brother Duro.** ** _

_****Agron, my lover, you hold my heart.** ** _

And Spartacus.   _ ** **Spartacus, you must carry on and bring Rome to its fucking knees!****_

I did not close my eyes as Lucretia moved before us, hand hovering.  She swayed gracefully, painted eyelids lowered and chin tilted back to expose the graceful column of throat.  I could tear her open with my teeth, shackles or no.

She paused before me.  I judged the distance.  Too far.  If she dared a half pace closer, just half a pace closer…!

“The gods have chosen,” she gasped into the eerie, breathless silence.  “This one!”

No, the gods had not forgotten the night of Numerius’ celebration.  They had not forgotten my intervention and neither had Lucretia, but her hand did not descend toward my head.

The one chosen was Varro.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go ahead and hate me. I hate myself, to be honest. *ugly cry*
> 
> It would be really, really great to hear from you (especially now, but I am ALWAYS thrilled to hear from you) so that we can shoulder each other's heartache.


	7. Bonds (Duro POV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: GORE (corpse), reference to TORTURE (basically a follow-through of the implied torture from the previous chapter)  
> TAG: Agron is not a happy camper  
> TAG: Duro’s job is to make sure no one dies… unnecessarily  
> TAG: Agron: a man absent sense (DURO TELLS ALL!)
> 
> Duro POV
> 
> Formatting: Flashback/backstory has been written in past perfect tense (Duro refers to events in The Arena & Fugitives)
> 
> Music rec: "Will I Make It Out Alive" (feat. Jessie Early) // Produced by Tommee Profitt  
> I get serious Varro feels for these lyrics: "Am I gonna live, gonna lose it all?"  
> But actually, I also get Nasir feels: "Am I gonna swim? Am I gonna sink?"  
> Plus some Agron feels: "Am I gonna bend? Am I gonna break?"

 

Idiot.

Donar grinned.  The dim fuck seemed to think he had just made a jest.  And if my Syrian brother had been here to snarl at him for it, it would have been fucking hilarious.  If he had stood with us in the ruins of this crumbling temple, I didn’t doubt that a lot of things would have been different.  Spartacus wouldn’t have nearly gotten his head shot through with arrow by that cantankerous Roman shit, Lucius, for one.  For another, Agron’s fist wouldn’t be cracking against Donar’s face right now.

_****Thwack!** ** _

“Fuck!” Donar cried out.  “You piss and shit!”

Agron snarled.

I shoved Donar back a pace before my brother took to twisting the stupid shit’s head off of his shoulders.  “What did you fucking expect?  Applause?”

Wiping at the dribble of blood escaping his nose, the man shouted, “For much fucking patience, yes!  Little wonder Nasir escaped your company.”

Even I wasn’t foolish enough to get between Donar and Agron after that comment.  Fuck, I was all for holding the shit’s arms while my brother pummeled him.

I laughed in sheer disbelief as they tussled, kicking up clouds of dust.  “If our Syrian brother were here--”

“Neither of you would take notice while head is yet lodged in ass,” Donar spat, dodging back out of reach.  “How else could you have held no notion of his intent toward fucking waste of endeavor?”

Agron’s fist was unstoppable.

_****Crack!** ** _

“Close fucking mouth,” my brother hissed, a wisp of steam warning of oncoming explosion.

“Or we will fucking close it for you,” I concluded, grabbing Donar by shoulder belt and dragging him from Agron’s sight.  As we gained distance, I muttered, “You finally seek to make acquaintance with the Ferryman?”

Sniffling and smearing at the dribble of blood beneath his nose, Donar growled, “Your brother stands a fucking monster.”

I did not deny it.  Agron had always been ruled by his temper.  Since being captured by Rome, sold, and forced to stand by -- _****helpless and fucking useless!****_  -- as our little brother endured test after test and bore injury after injury, the wellspring of anger was now an open geyser.  That Nasir stood as the first to capture my brother’s heart only stirred him to frantic desperation that, apparently, Donar was dim enough to stir to a frothing boil.

“I only sought to rid his face of sour fucking look,” he admitted in defeat.

With a shake of my head, I advised, “Leave be, Donar.”

How could I explain the gut-clenching uncertainty that weighed upon both Agron and myself with every moment of the day?  Whenever Nasir had been forced from our presence, some terrible ill had befallen him.  Or so it seemed.  And as the days dragged on with no sign of him, I began to fear -- as I was certain Agron did -- for his well-being.  Had he need of us?  Did he stand nearby and have need us and we did not know it?  Had he suffered wounds… or worse, his form lying in a ditch similar to the one we’d piled Naevia’s guards into?  Would Agron and I spend every coming day in wretched ignorance, waiting in vain for his return?

The fear was insidious.  And though I merely loathed it, it tortured Agron.  It locked him inside his own aching head, setting his feet pacing absent direction, his hands clenching absent purpose.  It pained me to cast gaze upon him.

Donar clapped me on the back.  “Nasir is a tough, competent, little fuck,” he observed, head clearing of blinding frustrations, and offered approximation of apology: “Worthy of trust.”

Donar was correct on all counts and this time his words were very fucking well received.  Still-- “See yourself to the tunnel and from fucking sight.”

He took my suggestion to heart, joining the digging crew while Agron shouted and scowled at the teams rebuilding temple roof, hauling away debris, and passing through the rotted gates with loads of raw material gathered from the surrounding woodland.

I moved to stand next to him.  Not even Spartacus would dare to approach Agron so long as his jaw was clenched tight enough to crack teeth.

Though, considering what Donar had said, he had every right to be fucking furious: _****“You bark as a fucking dominus!”****_

Words very fucking ill received.

A heartbeat of silence pulsed, and then I took opportunity to say, “Donar’s skull brims with shit and overflows from mouth.  You bark not as a fucking dominus, but, uh… what is that giant dog possessed of three heads that stands at the gates of Tartarus?”

Agron’s lips quirked.  “Cerberus.”

“Right.  Well, you don’t bark as him, either.”  This earned me a skeptically arched brow.  “You yowl as fucking pet cat with chicken head lodged in ass.”

I ducked under the swipe of his arm, grinning.  “Oh, brother.  I would accept such tender affections were there not so much work to be done!”

He pointed a finger at my face.  Agron still scowled as sourly as the sourest fuck in the Republic, but the bloodlust and mindless rage had retreated.  I knew enough to know when to claim victory and surrender ground.

Returning to task, I pretended not to see the way he fidgeted with his arm guards.  If I’d had coin to wager and a fool to swindle, I’d have bet there was more than just strips of cloth wedged underneath: the Roman pen Nasir had used to launch attack on slaver’s wagon likely rested beneath the left bracer and the key from Batiatus’ ludus was surely tucked into the right.

Our father had favored tokens from his family, carrying them into war.  Embroidered cloth woven and decorated by my mother had long protected his skin from the harsh rub of leather upon wrists: “Her strength adds weight to my blows; her loyalty sees them strike true.”

I had never considered my brother a superstitious man.  Or a particularly sentimental one.  How odd was that ailment called “love.”

Not that I stood much different: even I was too raw to say my Syrian brother’s name aloud, too fearful that it might draw the attention of Roman gods.  I had never been inclined toward prayer, but I wished with everything in me that I hadn’t let Nasir push me toward Vesuvius.  I should have gone with him on his quest.

Though, if I had, Donar would probably be dead by now.  Provoking Agron into spending a measure of boiling frustration would have brought more than a little spurt of blood.

Fuck, if my brother had been so impassioned when we’d fought the Romans in Germania, neither one of us would have been taken captive.

I blinked.  Some say that the gods have a plan for all mortals.  Was this Agron’s?  In order to reach his true measure, he’d had to become a slave, a gladiator, a lover, and a rebel?  Was this Agron’s place?  Was it his fate to walk a path of constant uncertainty, blood, and death?

Gods save us if any misfortune befell Nasir.  Or rather, only the gods themselves would stand capable of saving the fucking Romans, because Agron would not rest until he had burned the entire Republic to ash.  And I would be at his side bearing the fucking torch.

I accepted midday meal from Euclid and sat with Chadara.  She’d been working within the temple this day, sweeping out debris and washing the walls.  Her hands were red, chapped and raw from so much labor in such a short time.

“Do you wish you’d followed him?” I asked, my throat locking momentarily around the thought of my little brother.  Where in this goatfucked land was he?

She tilted her head.  “To scratch a living from rocks and dirt or to seek a new master?”

“Either.”  I forced my voice to remain neutral.

Her sigh was deep, heavy.  “There are many comforts I long for.”

She was not the only one, I was sure.  “Once repairs are completed, wagons taken on the road may provide them.  Well, some of them.”  She looked at me with her large, dark eyes and I found myself recalling our last night at the villa when she had slept, curled and trusting, against my side as I’d maintained line of sight upon the overgrown garden and nearby rooms.

I cleared my throat and considered my barley and onion porridge.  “Do you not gain some benefit now that was absent from your life before?”

Chadara’s lips curled into a teasing smile.  “Your regard.”

I laughed.  “Ah, a woman of discerning taste indeed to find it of value!”

Chadara giggled and bumped my shoulder.  I grinned.

“The nights grow cooler,” she mused after a moment.  “Would you share a pallet?”

“With you?” I choked-coughed.

She nodded.

“Oh, um, for what time I may be permitted rest, yes.  I would like that.”  In response to her eloquent frown, I elaborated, “I’m sure to be sent on patrols or perhaps stand lookout.”

As I had the past two nights since arriving at this derelict temple.  Though I’d complained loudly of tasks set, the noise had been more for the sake of distracting myself and Agron from another day passing absent both news and sight of Nasir.  If I’d made attempt to take rest, the relative silence of night would have weighed relentlessly until either I sought Agron or he sought me.  Either way, we would have scouted the darkness on foot rather than suffered it upon pallets.

“Patrols.  Lookout.”  Chadara’s brow scrunched into a scowl.  “Are those not tasks for men of lower rank?”

“Rank?”  I shook my head, bemused that she still did not see what stood beneath her very pretty nose.  “I hold no rank over any other man.”

“Your brother commands, second to Spartacus and equal to Crixus.  Do you not hold honored position by virtue of having Agron’s trust?”

Well, yes, I could see her point, however-- “That guarantees me additional charge, not privilege.”

She huffed but it sounded more endeared than irritated.  Or perhaps that was my own hope… that Chadara and I might yet manage to find some shared sense.  She informed: “Your position holds advantages you are blind to.”

“Such as?”

Chadara glanced over her pale, unblemished shoulder toward the decrepit temple.  “Take a room and bed for yourself within temple walls.  As your brother has.  No one would deny you right to such.”

“And it would please you to claim it in part as yours?” I teased lightly.

She did not deny it.

I ate another bite of porridge as I considered it.  I had claimed a bench for myself in ludus cage readily enough, but I had merely sought to distance myself from Agron, my overbearing fucking shadow.  Once I’d received a cell of my own, however… fuck.  There had been nights I would have given my right hand to share that tiny space with my brother.  It would not be unpleasant to share a room with a woman as fair as Chadara, except I had no desire to be surrounded by silent walls again.

In the end, I made no further comment on it.  I finished my meal, offered to take Chadara’s bowl back to Euclid and his small staff of assistants, then I collected Donar.

“Come.  Let us see to the borders.  Lydon and Acer wait to be relieved of charge.”

Donar grumbled, “Your brother shoulders mantle of dominus and you give voice to naught but duties.”

“Yes, and your words yet spiral into deeper foolishness.  Our Syrian brother’s return will set all to rights again.”

Donar whacked the back of my head.  I stomped on his foot as I passed him on the way to the gate.

If I’d held any expectation of that quieting Donar’s tongue, I would have stood a fool.  He observed, “You keep company with a fair woman for sole purpose of bolstering ego?”

“She is called Chadara.”

“I do not think your cock cares what she is called.”

I arched a brow.  “And now you express concern for my cock.  How is it a fucking idiot such as you has survived to such long years?”

“Fortune favors me.”  He offered an irreverent shrug and careless grin.

“More like finds amusement in your bumbling--”

“Duro!”

I paused, drawing sword and scanning the woods for source of distant call.  Donar wordlessly grasped ax, moving to stand at my flank.  A moment later, the crashes of fumbling footsteps focused our attention on a lone, scraggly figure: Calius.

Goatfuck.  The man could not possibly be bearing glad news.

“I am--alone--” he panted.  “And--carry--mes--message.”

I tossed him my water skin and the small man drank so greedily he nearly drowned himself.  I kept my gaze on him and my teeth clamped shut as Donar surveyed surroundings for signs of pursuit or attack.

“Message,” I prompted when the former house slave finally lowered the skin and managed a deep breath.  “Speak it.”

He nodded, bracing a hand on his knee even as he returned the pouch to me.  His arm shook.  “Quest was success.  Peirastes guides those who seek freedom from Roman grasp.  Nasir, Pyrrhus, and myself made for Vesuvius.”

“Where are they then?” Donar snapped and, had I not burned for the answer to that question, I would have poked _****him****  _for displaying manner of fucking Roman dominus.

As it was, the effort required was far greater than I had thought possible to hold my tongue until Calius had given brief report of Glaber’s barricade, Nasir’s plan to divert their forces, and Pyrrhus’ decoy which had seen Calius through to the foot of Vesuvius.

“Fuck.  Fucking goatfuck,” I spat and leaped into motion.

I was unaware that I was dragging the smaller man across the grassy meadow toward temple until he stumbled and I nearly wrenched his shoulder joint apart.

In place of apologies, I offered counsel: “Do not say fucking word to Agron.  I will deliver news.  You will stand with Donar and Spartacus.”  Donar because the hard-headed shit had already survived more than one blow from Agron this day and Spartacus because the Thracian stood as the only one who had a chance of stopping Agron from gutting the unfortunate little fuck if my brother got past me.  And I was not entirely certain that I would risk injury for the sake of a man who had left our Syrian brother behind, command or no.

“Spartacus!” I shouted as Donar took charge of Calius and prudently slowed their steps.

Fortune was both with me and not: Spartacus stood conveniently in the temple yard… beside Agron.

They both looked up.  I hurriedly gestured Spartacus closer before nodding him toward Calius, who yet trembled from his mad dash… and perhaps also fear.  The look on my brother’s face as he caught sight of the man and took note of who did not accompany him was--fuck the gods, it chilled my blood.

Task forgotten, he stormed toward me.  “Break fucking words!”

“There are too many for your ears to hold,” I began.  He moved to shove past me.  “Halt!  Calius follows Nasir’s orders.”

“Speak them!” Agron snarled.

Fear sharpened my tongue.  “Oh, and you would heed them?”

His tense, wild-eyed silence was answer enough: the stupid fuck would heed half of what Calius told… if that much.  Well, regardless, the man would give report.  With a hand grasping my brother’s arm at safe distance from Calius, we listened to it.

In truth, the little man’s voice faded in and out as I struggled to focus on the additional details spoken.  Between the two of us, perhaps Agron and I would garner the majority of the man’s meaning.

“Glaber’s barricade patrolled, halting our progress for two days--”

How in a fucking goatfuck had Nasir kept all three of them undiscovered for two fucking days in open territory?

“Rations gone, Nasir fell back and made for city of Atella--”

Where in all of shit and piss stood Atella?

“The next morning, men were drawn from the line to make for the city, to aid in capture of rebels--”

Donar sputtered.  “Rebels?  You spoke only of Nasir!”

Calius nodded, wisely avoiding Agron’s eyes.  “Unless he found others to aid him, he stood alone in Atella.”

Agron growled.  “While you and Pyrrhus sat back scratching each other’s ass?”

“Pyrrhus surrendered himself so that I might slip through to deliver message.  If he is not dead, he is captured.”

And Nasir?  Surely by now the fucking Romans would have turned that city upside down and--

I clutched harder at Agron’s bulging arm even as he declared, “Duro and I make for Atella.”

“Gather weapons and provisions,” Spartacus ordered.  “And we will require volunteers to aid us.”

Agron sneered.  “I do not require--”

“Nasir may,” the Thracian insisted and, just that simply, Agron’s mouth closed.

My brother nodded me toward temple storeroom.  Donar nudged Calius to sit upon temple steps and take rest.  Spartacus placed a hand upon the winded man’s shoulder, speaking quietly.

We stormed into the provisions cache and began filling our packs.  My hands shook.  The uncertainty of it all -- did Nasir even still draw breath?  Fuck.  Suppose Atella was a trap?  Agron and I had never bothered to keep our love for the man secret.  Glaber could be making attempt to draw us in and--

“You should not be the one to go.”

I looked up.  Crixus blocked the doorway, glaring not at me but at Agron.  Agron ignored him.

The Gaul insisted, “You are needed here.”

“Remove yourself from fucking path,” Agron ordered, low and deadly.

“Vesuvius is your charge--”

“And if it were Naevia!?” he nearly screamed, lunging forward, spittle flying.

Their gazes clashed, locked, broke.

Crixus stepped aside.  Undefeated or not, no man possessed of sense would risk life and limb in attempt to stall or dissuade my brother.

By the time we’d collected shields and donned cloaks, Spartacus had assembled a small group for the expedition.  Mira and Tilius stood at the center of a restless crowd of freed men and women, calling for volunteers to aid Nasir and Pyrrhus.

Chadara was not among them.

She caught my arm upon the steps.  “Remain here,” she pleaded quietly and I gaped for a moment.

“You would make no attempt to learn his fate?”  It was the very least a friend could do.

“He would be here were he able.  As he is not able, he stands in Roman grasp or dead.  There is nothing to be done.”

“You are wrong.”

“And you are a fool.”  Her fingers tightened before her hand dropped and she turned away.  I caught her by the waist and spun her into my side.  Felt the shuddering breath she drew: “You will die, Duro.”

“One day, yes.  As all men must.”  I pushed her hair back over her ear.  This woman--so fucking stubborn.  She understood nothing of what truly mattered.  “You will regret my return,” I attempted to jest, “for I shall tell the tale of our victory so many times and with such embellishment that you’ll throw me over for Donar.”

At the sound of her helpless laugh, I released her, tweaked her chin playfully, and jogged over to Agron, who was restraining himself with admirable effort as Donar, Rabanus, and Rhaskos struggled into guard uniforms.  Libo was nearly finished hitching a pair of horses to a slaver’s wagon.

“Fucking wagon,” Agron disapproved.  “We have no time!”

Spartacus answered: “And should we stride into the city as we are now, we will be recognized on sight.”

“So be it!”

“Would you fall to Roman swords before setting eyes upon Nasir again?”

Agron’s jaw clenched.  I knew that look, knew his answer: no, he would not.  I clasped his shoulder.  “Let Agron and I go overland and take measure of the city before wagon makes approach.”

Spartacus nodded.  “Calius?”

“I go with Agron and Duro.”

I had to admire the little man’s fortitude; the prospect of being alone with us and our tempers clearly terrified him but he did not hesitate.

“The city is simple enough to locate.  It is on the road to Capua,” Calius assured Spartacus, who replied, “I likewise disguise myself as guard.  Perhaps one or two more volunteers to act as slaves being transported--”

Agron’s frustration reached breaking point: “I leave you to it.  Duro!  Calius!  We make for Atella.  Now.”

My brother shouldered past any and all who stood between him and the open gate.  Ignoring the wide-eyed faces of bystanders, I caught Calius’ arm and offered him a full water pouch as well as a pack.  “There’s food,” I told him.  “Just don’t choke on it and die.  We move fast.”

He nodded and we sprinted for the woods.

It was not a long journey, but the lingering threat of Roman patrol forced us to slow and quiet our steps the further we ventured.  Twice, the flash of red cloak in the distance forced us to withdraw and circle around.

“How did you avoid capture for two days?” I eventually asked Calius.

“Concealment.  Within a hollow, beneath dry leaves.”

Agron growled, “Like fucking corpses.”

“You speak for yourself, brother,” I quipped, unable to resist the jest, “for I prefer fresh cunt.”

“So you say, yet I hear tell you’ve not wet your cock in Chadara.”

I grimaced.  Returned blow: “As if your cock has found a sheath.”

He glared at me.  I glared back.  Calius cleared his throat, calling our attention to task.  We crossed the remaining distance in silence, holding tightly to anger.

Atella stood not as a city, but a tiny, walled village.  It was little more than a shit-stop along the road from Capua to Neapolis.  Little wonder we had missed it on the move south to Vesuvius.  New faces would be well-remembered here.  Keeping to the treeline of the low hills, we circled the area, counting two Roman soldiers standing guard above the gate and two charged with operating the wooden doors themselves.

“Fuck,” Agron growled.  “Spartacus will fucking gloat.”

I shrugged.  Our leader’s forethought had earned him that right.  “Come, to the road.  Let us get it fucking over with.”

The wagon was easy enough to locate.  The fucking thing rattled loudly enough to reach the ears of those even in the capital.   _ ** **Can you hear us, Nasir?  We are coming, brother.****_

Within the cart, I found Mira, Lysandros, Vitus, Libo, and Tilius shackled, garbed in tattered clothing of slaves.  Calius joined them, quickly stripping to his sweaty subligaria.  Agron and I threw on the guard uniforms that had been prepared for us.  Joining the retinue, we marched the distance toward the city.

Rhaskos was given charge of blustering our way into the town: “For food and drink and to wet our cocks if the women are pleasing.”

Spartacus, by virtue of his fame, held his tongue and turned face toward the landscape as though maintaining watch for attackers.  The sun was now caressing far horizon.  My feet itched to move.

A Roman soldier called out: “You make for Capua?”

“This road leads there, does it not?”

“Be warned.  Spartacus and his fucks have been sighted, harassing travelers.”

Though I could not see Rhaskos from my position near rear of cart, I imagined his foolish grin and cocky manner.  “We do not fear that little Thracian shit.  Let others waste time and lose profit in search of their own cock and balls -- business opportunity beckons!  Either allow us passage so we may drop coin at this shithole or send some of your men to accompany us to Capua.  My men are tired and nightfall approaches.”

Hm.  An interesting challenge.  Words that rang with the cunning of Spartacus.

I stood impressed Rhaskos had managed to remember them all and recount them in correct order. Although, the mention of cock would have certainly lent aid to that.

Despite clear proof of Spartacus’ hand in this moment, I caught myself holding breath, awaiting the guard’s response.

My heart pounded.

Agron’s hand twitched toward his sword.

And then we were gestured within city walls and toward an unused area of the square.  The horses were drawn to a halt and wheels clamped against movement.

Spartacus spoke direction to each of us in a voice that did not carry past the wagon: “Duro, accompany Donar and Rhaskos to the inn.  The soldiers seem both lacking in number and unwilling to invoke the wrath of the people.  Discover why.  It may concern Nasir and Pyrrhus.”

He dropped a small pouch of coins into my grasp and I waved to my compatriots.  “To the first jug, you simple fucks!”

We ordered seats, wine, and food to be taken out into the square for the three who guarded the “slaves.”  For the comfort of those within the wagon, we spent no coin; they were more than capable of feeding themselves: the cart had been well-stocked with provisions.

This left me able to focus on winning over the comely woman who served the inn’s patrons.  There were few customers this evening and her duties light.  Before long, she was sitting astride my knee as I praised her dark eyes and flowing hair.

When she giggled, I teased, “Surely you hear such praise nightly?  The soldiers keep you safe, do they not?”

“They are a scourge,” she retorted, tossing her hair back.

“Only the four?  Ambitious shits.”

“There are yet a dozen here now.”

Lifting cup to lips, I prompted, “Now?”

“Yes.”  She leaned closer, pressing her bosom -- warm and soft -- against my side.  “During the night, a man of small stature, dark skin and hair, slaughtered nearly all the praetor’s men within Atella’s walls.”

“One man?”  I slapped her rump playfully.  “You jest.”

“I speak truth!” she insisted.  “By late morning, the square was filled with newly arrived soldiers set to hunt him.  Yet,” she continued, very much enjoying my rapt attention, “more fell before the man they sought revealed himself.”

“Revealed himself,” I clearly doubted, heart pounding.  “To what fucking end?”

“They had captured his companion.  Perhaps they were lovers?” she speculated salaciously.

I rolled my eyes.  “Then why are they not both hanging from cross beyond city gates?”

“I know not,” she admitted.  “They made for Capua.”  Her pretty face drew into a frown sour enough to rival Agron’s.  “Leaving behind these stinking, arrogant shits for the sake of our protection.”

Protection?  No.  Harassment and intimidation?  Very much yes.

I made a show of finishing my wine and charmed her into fetching another jug to refill my cup.  “And see to the others?” I requested, standing and weaving toward the door.  “I must piss.”

Locating a section of wall cast in even darker shadow among shade of night, I emptied my bladder.  Agron swiftly came to stand beside me to do likewise and I relayed information gathered.  Agron said not a word.  He did not interrupt to hiss and spit impatiently.  He did not grab my arm.  He did not glower or even glare.

Gods fucking save us.

Weeks before, when cart had returned from arena absent Nasir -- when that fuck Liscus had mocked our hopes -- when I’d lunged and Hamilcar had grabbed my shoulders, shouting reassurance to cancel filthy fucking Gaul humor, and the thunder-clap of whip had been lost on Agron as he had demanded-shouted- _ ** **roared****_  at Doctore, insisting he be put to cart and accompany Nasir to the Calavius house and I’d translated as I’d wrestled him away from both ludus gate and armed guards braced for battle -- in his mindless desperation, my brother -- _****Nasir’s lover****  _\-- had spoken German and--fuck.  That night.  Goatfucking fuck.

Agron’s request had been denied.  Of course.  And as the wagon had rattled away without him, his mania had peaked.  A snarl.  Fists slamming against iron.  Tears.

Doctore had answered with measured threats of chains and isolation.

No.  Agron would kill himself -- tear the skin from his own wrists fighting the shackles and crack skull open against wall in frustration.  Fuck.

My open palm had cracked across my brother’s jaw again and again and again until I’d managed to sweep his feet out from under him, tumbling him to the sand before Doctore could give the order and I’d winced right along with Agron as his skull had bounced hard upon the ground, shouting in our native tongue: “Embrace the pain, brother!  For Nasir you must embrace the pain!”

And then, suddenly… silence.  Terrible silence.

Agron had simply stopped.  Stared through the bars of the gate.  Listened to the faint and diminishing clatter as the wagon had rolled down the road.

My thoughts had turned toward Doctore’s words: **_**“** **Nasir attends celebration of victory at request of his patron.”**_**

Another fucking Roman celebration.  The most recent had nearly cost Varro his life.

“He will return to us,” I’d declared with false confidence.  It was a promise I’d had no way of guaranteeing, but Agron had not tried to take on the guards or climb the gate.  He’d prowled the yard in stubborn vigil, watching and listening, ignoring the bowl and spoon -- his nightly portion -- that I shoved against his arm every time his listless movements brought him within range.

Spartacus and Varro had jointly turned away attempts to pull Agron into the weakly festive atmosphere.

“Let him pass time with cup in hand,” Donar had argued.

A cup that Agron would surely fling upon nearest wall in effort to prove that his hands were yet capable of _****something.****_

We had waited.

Watched the gate.

Listened past the rattle of dice and subdued laughter.

Yet there had been no creak of wooden wheels or stomp-jangle-huff of tired horses at last returning.

Nothing.

A dozen guards could not have forced Agron to retire to his cell peacefully, but with a firm grip on his wrist and a soft chastisement -- “Nasir would have you rest now.  Come, brother.” -- I’d managed it.

A hollow victory.

He’d paced the confines of his cell back and forth.  Back and forth.   _ ** **Back and forth.****_   All fucking night long.  Or, I assumed so.  Whenever I’d jerked awake from slumped position against wall, the sound of footsteps from Agron’s neighboring cell had greeted me.

If my hand could have fit through the metal grate, I would have reached out.  Grasped his fingers tight.  It was just as well the gesture hadn’t been possible.  He likely would have snapped bones.

Agron would not take morning meal.  He would not even turn gaze from ludus gate.  The long, restless night had burned away none of his rage, so I’d provoked his ire again and again, wrestling rather than sparring.  The latter would surely see one or both of us dead.

Doctore had permitted it, had left us to it, commanding Agron to work at palus alone only when the sound of my wheezing breaths had reached his ears.  But once rested, I’d challenged him yet again.  We’d railed senselessly against each other with increasing frequency as doubts loomed larger and larger.  It had stood the only way either of us could endure the wait until fucking wagon’s return and Nasir gave us his smile once more.

A smile colored with fresh bruises and bisected with slashed-and-stitched skin.

Fucking Romans.  My hands had ached to snap the neck of each and every one of those little shit stains.

But then at the funeral games, an even greater torment: we had watched -- _****fucking helpless and useless!****_  -- as Nasir had faced a man far more experienced than himself.  Faced… and fought.  Again and again and again!  Our brother had clearly extended the fight, risking his own life needlessly and if the fucking Romans did not doom our Syrian brother to the afterlife then his own foolishness would surely suffice!  Each opening the badly scarred Gaul’s ill-used and arena-battered form offered Nasir ignored in favor of drawing out the drama of battle.  Each opportunity for certain victory lost became a wound upon both Agron and myself.

I had not dared to make attempt to calm Agron.  I’d let him rage and scream and beat against the iron grate.  I’d let him seethe in silence until he couldn’t not roar himself breathless.  I’d gritted my teeth until the match had been called and Nasir’s survival proven.

Proven just as his courage and conviction and skill had been proven.  Applauded by every man present in that gloomy fucking tunnel.  Nasir had seemed insensate to the recognition, smiling in response to Agron’s enraged scowl and -- fuck -- that little Syrian stood the bravest man I’d ever known.

But also the most aggravating.  The performance he’d given against Gordianus would have drawn attention.  Roman attention.  How long would it be before admirers came calling, shoving gold into Batiatus’ hands?  How could Agron and I stand by when Nasir was summoned to attend fucking Roman guests?

I’d shivered with fear and fury at the thought.  I’d shivered with more of the same when Glaber’s gaze had fallen upon Nasir and Lysandros’ whispered words of warning had echoed in memory.

Nasir had indeed drawn Roman attention, just not the sort I had anticipated.

A public execution.  Goatfuck.

How in all of shit and piss were we to save Nasir from this oncoming fate?

A dozen days had passed absent either strategy or opportunity arising.

And then dreaded summoning had come.  Our little brother had been taken from us yet again by that fuck Numerius and I had felt genuine terror.  At Agron’s first break with his senses, the guards -- Glaber’s men -- would kill him.  I’d braced myself to tackle my brother to the sands if necessary, to pummel and shake and slap sense into him, but he’d been silent.  Utterly composed.

The guards had not seen the madness in his eyes.

Spartacus had.  As we’d stood along cliff’s edge prior to exhibition match, my heart had leaped into my throat as Agron had stared down a guard, shifted as if to lunge forward--

At Spartacus’ soft command, Agron had halted.  Rage reined.  Barely.

Mere moments later, as Crixus had screamed a battle cry upon the sands and Spartacus had slaughtered Romans upon balcony, Agron was unleashed.  He had never fought with such mindless brutality in Germania.  He had never been pushed so far by torment.

Until now.  Tonight.  In Atella and surrounded by oblivious Romans.  Once again, Agron shrouded himself in silence.  Madness lurked but a breath away.  I did not dare additional words or touch; I would not risk tipping the scales and upsetting my brother’s precarious balance.

As I stepped back with intent of returning to tavern’s hearth, my brother did something even more alarming.  He quietly said, “Gratitude, Duro.”

Jaw clenched, I nodded.  “He’s my brother also.”

We would find him.  Agron’s arms would hold him again.  One way or fucking other.

We took shifts resting.  Donar, Rhaskos, and I shared a room first.  I was forced to throw an arm over my nose and breathe through my mouth to block the Gaul’s inescapable stink, but no one could deny that he fit the image of a slaver.  After midnight, Agron, Spartacus, and Rabanus took our place and we stood guard at the wagon.

I didn’t doubt that Agron remained awake, burning with uncertainty.  As fucking long as the night felt to me, it was nothing compared to what my brother endured.

What Nasir endured.

We prepared to leave Atella at dawn.

“Move fucking feet!” Rhaskos spat.  “I would have this wagon emptied and coin in hand by noon this day!”

The soldiers did not attempt to delay our departure.

We set foot to path for Capua at brisk pace.  The speed of our steps kept Agron’s rage contained and intent focused -- for which I was fucking grateful -- but I wondered at Spartacus’ lack of caution.  Moving toward the Thracian’s post, I inquired, “What puts wings on fucking feet?”

“Swift rescue of good friend.”

“And brother, yes.  I do not make complaint of quick steps, but this is not your way.”  Absent promise of confrontation with Glaber.  “What other concern drives you?”

Spartacus hissed a breath through his teeth.  “Public executions are typically held following midday meal.”

Glaber, for all his useless vanity, had been smart enough to foresee the dangerous message Nasir’s continued success in the arena would send to those yet enslaved by Rome.

Fuck.  Of course.  How had I forgotten?

Spartacus grimly concluded: “We must reach him before he’s scheduled to die.”

It was all I could do not to sprint the remaining distance.

We arrived at city limits by mid morning.  Once again, we made use of the cisterns.  Libo and Rhaskos were charged with concealing the wagon as the rest of us moved beneath the city.  Agron and I had spent very little time in these tunnels and I could feel how it chafed for him to follow rather than lead.  Though, to be fair, a blind, enraged charge into city’s center would likely not aid our cause.

Tilius and Calius, as those among us who stood least chance of being recognized by Capua’s residents, were sent to investigate the exit closest to city square and marketplace.  It stood to reason, Spartacus had argued, that Glaber would brag of both Nasir’s capture and planned punishment to the citizens as publicly as possible.

When both men returned from their scouting mission, their faces were drawn.  Calius was so pale his form appeared absent blood.

“Nasir?” Agron rasped, taking two steps forward and causing Calius to flinch.  Tilius held his ground.

“He yet lives.”

“But?”  Spartacus stepped forward, placing a hand upon Agron’s shoulder.

“You must lay eyes upon it yourself.”

Calius refused to accompany us and, though the man was amusingly squeamish and frustratingly anxious, I knew what we were about to witness would test us all.

Donning hoods and scarves, we trailed Tilius out into the street and through the buzzing throng.  I caught vague whispers of death and anticipation of Glaber’s justice.

And then my gaze fell on it.  A cross in the center of the square.  A lifeless body hung from strips of cloth and iron nails, a man’s form sliced, stabbed, skinned, and crusted with blood.  A gaping mouth, black with the remnants of gouged-out tongue.  A single wound to chest, puncturing heart.  The brand of the Brotherhood upon right forearm.

No.  Gods, no.

“Varro,” Spartacus sobbed.

I let the crowd push me against his side to steady him.  There was a charter posted beside the body: any who spoke the name Spartacus would suffer the same fate.

A shiver trickled through me, cold fear followed by the welcome flush of boiling anger.  I glanced toward Agron and followed my brother’s enraged glower to a second announcement.  A papyrus scroll tacked to the board announcing gladiatorial games and, for the climax, an execution.

At sunset tonight, three fugitives would face Gannicus, returning champion of Capua’s arena.  He, along with five victors of the afternoon matches, would dispense death.

The condemned: three slaves who had betrayed their dominus and taken the lives of many upstanding, noble Roman citizens within the walls of the house of Batiatus.

Three men.  Two were unnamed.  The third was the Syrian Nasir.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started writing And Prove More Fierce, I did NOT intend to let Varro die. But it happened anyway and I literally grieved for two months over this. Two months of no writing -- this series nearly died right along with Varro.
> 
> Now we know what Agron as “a man absent sense” looks like (for those of you who have been Wondering).
> 
> Although Duro seems to brush off Donar’s remarks at the beginning of this chapter (about Nasir taking off and how blind Agron and Duro were to not see it coming), you KNOW that Agron is torturing himself with replaying these words over and over again because YES HE DOES BLAME HIMSELF. Donar totally hit a bullseye there.
> 
> Also, I hope you can see a big difference between Duro’s POV and Nasir’s. Like, for instance, the fight with Gordianus. Nasir thought Agron was pissed because Nasir made him worry (suggesting that Nasir believes Agron doesn’t have complete confidence in Nasir’s abilities as a fighter) but ACTUALLY Agron was furious because, like, you just don’t risk your life beyond necessity when you have people who care about you and want you to return to them safely. Some miscommunication happening there that will eventually come to light as Nasir realizes that Agron and Duro do believe in him, and Agron and Duro figure out that Nasir doesn’t understand some key points of what it means to be part of a family.


	8. From Arena to Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> (1) TORTURE (right from the start of the chapter so brace yourself before reading onward),  
> (2) reference to past TORTURE (and Varro's death -- I'm sorry but Nasir is still dealing with this)  
> (3) GORE (torture, violence)  
> (4) GROSS STUFF (raw sewage)  
> (5) DEATH (given where this chapter takes place, it’s pretty much inevitable that somebody’s gonna bite the dust)

 

“Again.”

The brand descended.  Seared.  Blistering flesh, raw and red and bloody.  The scar upon my arm -- the “B” of Batiatus, of Brotherhood, of brutality-battle-blood -- was a mess of steaming flesh.  Ashur, that treacherous fuck, had taken his time shaving the raised scar from my skin as Glaber had posed question after question about Spartacus’ location and plans.  I had glared at them as if I had not understood their words, as if I all could comprehend was the pain.

I had answered in silence.

Then they’d heated the coals.  Pressed the brand to fresh, glistening skin.

The smell, the stink, the rank odor and smoke and--

_****Hoof beats in the sand.** ** _

_****“This one is pretty of face.”** ** _

_****Hands, rough and bloodied, on my arm.  Soot stains upon my tunic.** ** _

_****Feet stumbling over smoldering fabric and--** ** _

_****“NASIR!”** ** _

I could no longer pretend indifference to the agony.  Sheer fucking agony.  Unrelenting.  My head spun.  My ears rang.  Was I screaming?  Bile rose in my throat, burning me within as the brand burned down through my flesh once more.

How many more times would I be made to endure the sizzling bite of flame?  How many more?

The brand lifted.  I did not look down.  I knew I would see charred muscle where smooth scar had once been.  Three times I had endured the brand today.  Would I even feel the fourth?  Would there be less pain or more if Ashur at last touched bone?

“Where does Spartacus make camp?”

Glaber had repeated this question more than once.  I had lost count, which annoyed me.  I made attempt to tally the number, but chasing wisps of memory made me dizzy.  My stomach lurched.  I vomited acidic bile upon my chin.  It dribbled to my chest.

My throat--ah, fuck, it burned.

Ashur’s grunt of disgust made it past the rushing-pounding-pulsing in my ears.  Footsteps moving away.

“Perhaps he requires alternative motivation?” the shit-spewing, obsequious fuck suggested.

Glaber sighed, bored and frustrated.  “This man was a house slave.  Being bent over and fucked raw is accustomed treatment to his kind.”

“Hm, yes.  But to witness another’s suffering might cause him to reconsider holding to silence.”

“A theory well-tested at last night’s celebration.”

Indeed it had been.  Watching the Romans pass knife in turn, cutting shallowly so as to keep Varro -- hung and draped upon bars and chains -- alive long enough for all to enjoy inflicting pain...

Glaber had sidled close to me as the blood had dripped and oozed from increasing wounds and promised, “Reveal where Spartacus makes camp and I shall grant Varro mercy.”

I had not uttered a word.  Any response I would give other than indifference would have only incited further torment upon Varro.  My silence was the only aid I could offer.  The same stood true of Pyrrhus.  Should I voice objection, Ashur would surely make good on his threat of throwing the young man face down upon desk and fucking him raw.

Glaber and Ashur underestimated me: I had seen too much suffering at Roman hands.  I was enraged, not broken.

With a huff, the praetor stomped from the ludus hall.  “Return him to the cage.  We have wasted enough time.”

Two pairs of hands grabbed my arms -- when had my bindings been cut? -- and hauled me along familiar corridors.  Familiar cage.  Doctore -- no, he was called Oenomaus now -- and Pyrrhus sat upon far bench.  The guards tossed me onto the dirt floor.  My lip, caught between my teeth, split and blood seeped over lingering traces of bile.  Fuck.  Blood was not supposed to taste so sweet… was it?  I gratefully sucked it down; it soothed my throat and appeased cramping belly.

After a moment or an epoch, the guards left; suddenly, I was being carefully lifted and placed upon Duro’s bench.  I groaned in objection, but was softly hushed.

Yes, of course.  Duro was my brother.  He would not mind if I took rest upon his bench.  And if he did, he could ask Agron to assist me to the one opposite.

“Agron,” I exhaled, wincing at the sizzle upon back of tongue.

“Hush.”  A command, soft yet firm.  A trusted voice.

I obeyed and slid sideways into slumber.

The darkness -- soft and gentle -- receded sharply at a touch upon my brow.  I opened my eyes.  Pyrrhus.  “Hm?” I asked, senses yet scattering with every roaring throb of pulse beating against the burning of my arm.

“Guards come.”

Fuck.  I lurched upright, squeezing my eyes shut against the spinning of the world beneath ass.   Sucking air into my lungs, I managed to gain feet in time to stare blankly at the approaching soldiers.  If I could but keep my feet, none would know of my suffering, my shifting thoughts as they snagged upon currents of pain and tore through time and distance to--

_****“NASIR!”** ** _

Focusing on each breath -- in and out -- I followed instruction mindlessly.  Accepted the shackles upon my wrists and feet.  Shuffled into ludus yard.

“See them delivered to the arena, prepared for execution,” Glaber ordered, attention bent upon documents.

The sight amused me.  Should the little sparrow of a man neglect to sign record of our passing, he might be denied the glory of holding us in Batiatus’ cage.  Yes, it was fucking hilarious that he must put name to paper to prove himself overseer of deeds not his own.

“You smile, little man,” Oenomaus observed.

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

Despite the destination and destiny awaiting us, Pyrrhus giggled.

I pulled myself into waiting cart.  Sighed upon hard bench.  Slumped into every jostle and jerk of wooden wheels within ruts.

“Where do we go?” I asked, dazed, but my voice sounded calm to my own ears.

“The arena,” Oenomaus informed.

The arena.  I smiled.  “Good.”

There was a chance then, the smallest chance, that I would die as Agron had foretold.  Or I would gain the favor of the crowd.  I imagined the fury in Glaber’s beady eyes as he was forced to present me with the rudis.  I would walk away a free man… to be killed in the street moments later, perhaps, but it would be better than falling upon the sands.  The sands were mine.  I had commanded my fate upon them.  What right did Glaber claim from his cushioned seat in fucking pulvinus?  None.

I laughed.

Pyrrhus cast gaze toward me, brows scrunched.  When he looked to Oenomaus, the Numidian shook his head.  Still, I heard the silent question: _****Has Nasir lost all fucking sense?****_   And resigned reply: _****Let him face death as he wishes.****_

Yes.  Let me claim choice.

Agron.  Duro.  I would see them both again, if not in this life then the next.

When the wagon shuddered to a halt, I drew a deep, measured breath.  Gazed down upon my raw arm.  “Embrace the pain,” I murmured.

Oenomaus nodded.  “It is the only way.”

The cart doors opened.  Afternoon sunlight.  My belly rumbled, echoing and hollow.  When had I last eaten?  The day before, perhaps.  Before Varro.  Before.

A jumble of dim tunnels.  Blurred sand beneath sandals.  Sneering guards, face shields gleaming in torch light.  A sloping passageway.  Rows of soldiers flanking the three of us.

Standing at the gates, Oenomaus mused, “For many years, I have dreamed of my return to the arena.”

I smiled sadly.  It was an insult to the man that two former house slaves accompanied him.  I could think of no words to break except a pithy remark: “Gratitude.”

He arched a brow at me.  “For instruction in dying well?”

I huffed a shallow laugh.  “For placing sword in hand.”

Oenomaus gave me a rare smile.  “I believe you claimed that privilege absent permission.”

Ah, yes.  So I had.  “Then gratitude for allowing me to fight as Nasir.”

He nodded once.

I turned to the young man panting with panic at my side.  “Have you ever been to the games?” I asked Pyrrhus.

He shook his head.  Frantic with mindless fear.  “No.”

“Give no shit for the noise.  Keep sense of surroundings.  Eyes upon opponent.  Ready yourself for opportunity.”

The young man swallowed audibly.  “Absent weapon.”

I regarded the chain connecting each shackle to wrist.  Tested the strength of the links.

Oenomaus replied, “A man is never absent weapon.”

We were permitted to watch the preceding matches.  I tracked the movements of the gladiators, memorizing their favored attacks, their weaknesses, anticipated who would emerge the victor.  I held no expectation that this would aid me, but it was all the training I was permitted, so I indulged fully.  I imagined myself upon the sands, envisioned each block and lunge and parry and thrust.  I could defeat any one of these men, but first I would have to wrest them of weapon.  Not difficult to do, not so long as pain surged through my veins.

Embrace the pain.  It was the only fucking way.

A figure upon the pulvinus stood, arms outstretched.  A speech.  An announcement.  Roman fucking nonsense.  The rusted gladius shoved into my hands by an arena slave was explanation enough.

“Blade absent edge,” Pyrrhus moaned.

“Absent hope of victory as well,” Oenomaus agreed.

I gripped the stripped handle of sword in grasp.  The pommel had long since rotted through and broken off, but I was grateful nonetheless.  To die with weapon in hand and teeth bared -- yes, I stood grateful.

_****My brothers, stand patient.  Stand strong.  Stand together.  Or risk being greeted by my wrath in the afterlife.** ** _

The gates swung open and, for a moment, I was overwhelmed by the roar of the crowd.  Pyrrhus cringed away from rotten cabbage tossed by a spectator.  I nudged him forward with elbow beneath arm and lifted my chin to receive the golden light of early evening.  The sun would be setting soon.

“We are free men,” I told.  Pyrrhus sucked in a determined breath, standing taller.  Oenomaus looked at me quizzically, but I did not turn away from the opposite grate and our opponents yet within shadow.  Facing unknown enemies, I was grateful for the presence of allies.  Though we would fight and fall separately, in this moment they were a comfort.

And then, with the opening of the gate and a shower of rose petals, the executioners emerged.  Gannicus, the Celt.  The legend himself followed by five others.  Men I had just watched fight and win matches this evening.  They would be tired from their bouts -- one thing I could turn to my advantage despite their armor and superior weapons.

Oenomaus stiffened as the Celt raised arms and swords to acknowledge the crowd.

Beside me, Pyrrhus drew yet another forced breath, jaw clamped tight and chest shuddering with effort.  I had no additional advice to offer.  But suddenly I recalled a meeting at the water cache, a ladle passing from Duro’s grasp to mine, and I realized there was one thing a man could not stand victorious without: confidence.

“Pyrrhus,” I said.

“Nasir?”

I smiled.  “My last battle upon the sands.  I am honored to share it with a warrior such as you.”

He grinned in return.

Gannicus paused before Oenomaus, revealing a fond grin followed by wry words: “We at last meet each other upon the sands.”  A sudden sadness swept over his features.  “As Melitta always feared.”

In the pulvinus, one of the Romans who had taken such pleasure in tormenting Varro the night before -- that fuck Varinius -- was blathering on about Hannibal and Spartacus and who fucking gave shit about any of--

Oenomaus stepped forward.  One, two, three.  “Is it true?” he asked beneath the drone of pointless oration.  “Did you lay with her the night she left this world?”

The Celt looked down and away.  In guilt.  “Oenomaus--”

With a roar of rage, the former doctore swung, committing us all to fight to the death.

Suddenly, I remembered -- my body remembered: I was a gladiator.

A retiarius raced toward Pyrrhus, but I leaped into his path, batting the net aside with a flick of wrist, tangling blade within it and dropping down out of the sweep of trident.

Net torn from his grasp, I spun, catching the edge of a swooping ax in its weighted grasp.

Lunging backward with all my weight, I ripped the weapon from second opponent’s hands, somehow missing oncoming strike from trident.

_****Keep moving!** ** _

I tumbled, rolled.  A spear jabbed into the sands near my hip and I quickly reversed direction, rolling onto the shaft and tearing it from the hoplomachus’ grasp.

A spear.  Yes!  This weapon I would claim for my own.

I held it in hand now, ruined sword in my left to stand in place of shield.  I hissed a battle cry and charged the retiarius, leaping aside to avoid his thrust.

Whipping spear toward helmet of the unarmed gladiator I had stolen ax from, I knocked him soundly in the head, spun upon ball of foot and swept his feet out from under him.

Spear thrust to throat.  Blood upon sand.

I ducked beneath my ruined gladius to block trident, rising and spinning.

My wrist screamed, bending to odd angle, but I struck fast: the barb of the spear sliding deep into the man’s gut.

He grasped the shaft and bore his full weight against me.  I turned on my heel, stumbling him in a circle and knocking one murmillo aside just as he made to strike killing blow upon a kneeling Pyrrhus.

“Pyrrhus!  Gain feet!”  I tossed gladius yet in grasp into the sand at his knees.

I leaped up, kicking both feet into the retiarius’ chest, freeing my spear from his flesh and landing hard upon my back.

Flipping over onto knee, I aimed for throat.  Missed.

Twisted back to block murmillo’s gladius.

_****Pyrrhus?** ** _

A quick glance -- he stood, slumped over, clutching left arm to chest.  Absent weapon.   _ ** **No!****_

_****Sense of surroundings!** ** _

I rolled away and onto my feet, spear spinning in an arc meant to give me time and space to gauge my opponents: hoplomachus now held net and ax, retiarius clutched gut in one hand and trident in other--

“Kill!  Kill!  Kill!” the crowd clamored.

The pair of murmillos circled Pyrrhus -- he was trapped -- and beyond their bout, Gannicus leaped into the air, kicking Oenomaus back and onto the sands -- fallen.

We would die.  We would each of us--

An ear-splitting _****crash!****_

A _****whoosh****_  of fire.

Screams, not of passion but terror.

Flames.

What?

I looked left -- one entire section of the stands had collapsed in an inferno.  A second on the right quickly followed.

What was this?

And now two Roman soldiers charged toward the center of the arena?

Fuck.  Snarling, teeth grinding together in a humorless smile, I readied myself to duck-dodge-dart past sword’s edge and skewer throat--

“Nasir!”

I--wait--what?  Did I dream?  Or was I already dead?  “Agron?”

He pulled his helmet off with a manic grin and suddenly he was at my side, taking my flank and cutting through the still-standing retiarius as if the man were made of sand.

Agron’s wild battle cry drowning out the sound of spraying blood and, with a jolt, I spun.  Striking hoplomachus’ helmet with butt of spear -- my full weight thrown into the motion.

The man stumbled fateful step closer to my lover.  Too close.  Agron’s sword sliced through his torso with such force that innards exploded from split skin.

My spear swept the gutted man’s feet from under him.

“Agron?” I checked again.

“You fight well,” he panted, “little man.”

_****Fucking German!** ** _

Roman soldiers -- arena guards -- converged on us.

I furiously jabbed the first in the throat.  Agron smashed helmet against the man’s skull, knocking him clear of spear’s end, the force of the motion tossing the hapless fuck toward a second, but I was already skewering a third with spear through face and tumbling his dead weight into path of gladius.  Crouching, I swept the legs out from under a fifth before returning to the fourth and driving his bulk into the unstoppable swing of Agron’s sword.

We fought as if Agron and I had trained for this: my spear reaching where his arm and sword could not.  My body spinning, ducking, dodging, rolling as he slashed and stabbed overhead.  A dance.  A fucking dance as we fucked Pluto at the very gates of hell.  Blood and sand and flames and screams and death and then--

And then no more enemies stood before us.  Their bodies lay scattered in a staggering arc; we’d moved across the sands during the fight rather than holding our ground as Agron had compensated for the weakness in my right arm.  I felt it now like the fire burning through the arena, immolating and inescapable.

Inescapable--trapped--!

“Pyrrhus!” I called, catching sight of the man’s form upon the ground.  I raced to his side even as Agron screamed for Spartacus: “We must move!”

Sliding to my knees, I pressed a hand to the young man’s forehead above his vacant eyes.  He’d taken a deep slash to chest.  Blood no longer spurted or oozed from torn flesh.  He was dead.  I dared a moment to close his eyes.

And then Agron’s fingers were curling around my arm.

Even with eyes squeezed shut, I knew his touch: neither bruising grip nor firm tug.  Even now this German -- in the wake of vicious and brutal killings -- he heeded my desires.

“Duro?” I demanded, looking up and into Agron’s eyes.  They blazed with victory and intent.  Too ferocious for me to name the emotion joy.  Too fierce to be called relief.  Too turbulent to be likened to peace.

How did this man not burst into flame from his own inner passion?

“Within,” Agron spoke, tone clipped by overwhelming feeling.  Eyes yet fixed upon me, he nodded toward the section of arena that yet stood.  The inferno had already engulfed half the stands.  Awnings were fluttering into embers, crashing to the sands.

“He permits you to seize glory absent his presence?”

Agron chuckled helplessly.  “Fuck the glory.  I am here for you.”

What could I say to such a declaration?  “Close mouth and lend fucking arm.”

He did, bracing solid and sure.  I struggled to my feet, suddenly light-headed.  Fuck.  Still, my legs obeyed my intent.  Agron’s hand upon my shoulder guided my stumbling steps.  I was nearly at the tunnel gates before I regained sense enough to dig in my heels and demand: “Oenomaus!  Doctore!”

But the man was a mere moment behind us, half-conscious, supported between Gannicus and Spartacus.

Gannicus?  The man stood as an ally?

Well, that would be sorted later.  Agron reached out, tossing and kicking flaming debris aside to clear a path.  I grabbed a fistful of his Roman cape and endeavored to keep feet moving.

Duro would never let me hear the end of it were I to fall now.

We raced through blurry smoke--shadows--torch light.  Tunnels twisting away from light of day.

The stench of the spoliarium.  My stomach rolled and heaved.

Duro’s grin, a strong grip on my upper arm.  “Never doubt our regard for you, little brother!”

How could I, given what they were willing to endure for the faint hope of my rescue?

And then we were splashing into cold, raw sewage.  The darkness of the tunnel drain.  Agron’s armored arm around me.  Me -- a little dog struggling to keep head above Roman waves -- gasping for each breath of fetid air.

Tartarus.  This was Tartarus.  How had I tripped past the gates of hell without first laying eyes upon Agron and Duro?  But, no, Agron’s arm -- chainmail cold and sharp -- was yet clamped around me.  No, oh no.  He could not be here.

 _ ** **Elysium,****_  I desired to command.   _ ** **Leave me and make toward Elysium!****_

And then arms of flesh -- not metal -- were pulling me from the river of carrion.  “Ah, little brother!  The current did not sweep you away after all.”

“Fuck a goat, Duro,” I gagged against his filthy shoulder, opening eyes and daring to clutch to awareness, to trust that this might be real.  I had faced execution in the arena, yet I still lived?  Truly?

My German brother laughed.  Leaned down.  I felt an arm band behind my knees and press upward.

I clawed at him, waking fully.  “Make attempt to lift me and I tear ears from your fucking skull.”

Donar guffawed.  Clapped me on the shoulder.  “Ha!  There stands nothing amiss with our little Syrian.”

I punched a fist toward Donar in a self-explanatory, crude gesture.

“Come!” Spartacus called and suddenly Agron was hunching down, peering into my eyes, taking my measure.  We were in Capua’s cisterns -- my lover’s ever-changing eyes were murky and dark in the torches that they must have lit and left behind in anticipation of successful return.

I could hide nothing from Agron’s gaze, not my disgust at the filth or the pain of my body or the chill digging past my skin down into bone.

“I follow you,” he insisted, and I knew from his clenched jaw and earnest look that protest would see me slung over his arms like a fucking child invalid.

I forced a smirk.  “To admire view.”

He chuckled, shook his head in wry agreement.  Thumbed my cheek and jaw.  “Too long absent my sight.”

A few turns led us to cleaner water and we paused long enough to splash through it, washing away the worst of the stench.  The memory of it, however, I was certain would linger for months.  I shuddered in revulsion.

Emerging into fresh air was a relief until the crisp night breeze reached beneath damp hair and flesh.  Embarrassingly, I shivered.  Duro wound an arm across my chest and leaned his warmth against my back while his brother yanked off Roman uniform.  Once the final piece of metal landed with a clank-and-thud upon the ground, I found myself embraced from the front, a familiar scar pressing against my forehead.

I stood fortunate indeed to be in the presence of my Germans, both safe and hale and--

Stiffening, I spun in the circle of their arms, seeking-- “Spartacus!” I hissed.  “Varro.  He was…”

“Yes,” the Thracian replied quietly.  One word, yet so much grief.

I choked, unable to break words.

Clearing his throat, Spartacus quietly directed: “Extend wrists; I would see shackles from them.”

I readily complied and, with a bit of fumbling, Spartacus fit key to lock and freed my hands.  Passing both key and shackles to Calius -- the key would unbind Oenomaus while the shackles might be of some aid in future deception -- Spartacus asked: “How did Varro come to be in Capua?”

“He, his wife, and son were captured at an inn upon the road.”

“Aurelia and Janus,” Spartacus urgently pressed, stepping close enough to cause Agron to stiffen.  In the darkness, none could see his look of warning, but it was certainly there.  “Did you lay eyes upon them?”

“No.  But we were kept at the house of Batiatus.  I do not know where else Glaber would hold prisoners.”

Spartacus turned gaze toward the hill and the house that had once held the promise of death to us all.  “I cannot abandon her there.”

I protested, “You cannot face Glaber’s men without proper force!  He has garrisoned them within ludus.”

Duro shifted.  “Perhaps we will not have to.”  He reached around me and smacked his brother’s arm.  “Do you not still carry Nasir’s trinkets?”

“Trinkets?” I echoed in confusion.

Agron ducked his head and muttered, “The pen--”

“The one I took from the desk of Titus Calavius?”

Duro snorted.  “Yes, the one you felled a fucking slaver with.  Have you some other pen?”

I bit back a laugh.  “Other than the one all men use to make their mark in the sand?”

Rhaskos’ guffaw was hushed by both Spartacus and Rabanus.  “Shit-for-brains Gaul,” Donar snapped on a wisp of breath.

“A pen will not see you past locked gate,” I anticipated.  “I have tried it upon shackles absent success.”

Duro retorted, “Good thing this lummox carries a second token.”

“Ludus key,” Agron admitted with some pride.  His arms shifted and his fingers dug beneath bracer to reveal the souvenir I had claimed from the house of Batiatus.

“For what purpose would you keep both?”  I simply could not fathom a reason.

He shrugged.  “You did not request their return.”

I huffed.  I would have to see about crafting some adornment for the man; for all his protests regarding the uselessness of accessories, he was clearly starved for items of sentimental value.

“Very good, then.  Let us lock the soldiers within ludus.  But I doubt Ashur will be caged as well.  How would you deal with him?”

“With fucking blade to throat,” Rabanus snarled.

I could conceive of no more objections.  In fact, I would accompany them.  It was the least I could do: in spite of all my intent otherwise, I had not saved Varro, but I would see his wife and son freed from those who had taken his life.

Grabbing the tunic Agron had discarded, I pulled it on, hissing as the fabric brushed my mutilated arm.  I claimed Roman belt and sword as well since Agron was now wearing his own cloak and armament.  I asked, “Do we take wagon or go on foot?”

Duro sputtered a chuckle.  “Where do you think you’re going?”

I was too exhausted to speak of guilt.  I snarled: “The shits took the coat Zaria made for me.  I would fucking have it back.”

Agron giggled, his hand finding my shoulder and guiding his lips to my ear, slipping German words past the slowly drying strands of hair, reminding me of his devotion.

We crossed the landscape on foot.  Libo’s suggestion that he and Calius stay with as yet unawakened Oenomaus had been accepted as had Gannicus’ cautious offer to accompany us.  He stood with Rhaskos and Rabanus, their acquaintance made clear in the murmurings exchanged.  Spartacus appeared unconcerned by this.  I kept my Germans within sight.

Lights blazed from every window of cliff-side villa.  The cause soon became known: dozens of men, armed for battle, emerged from ludus and marched toward Capua.  We laid upon our bellies in the dirt and rocks and among scraggly weeds just beyond reach of torch light; a messenger had undoubtedly alerted them to the attack upon arena.  The city would be in chaos.  They made haste to the praetor’s side.

Had I not known better, I would have believed the gods favored us.

Once the ranks of Glaber’s men had passed, we completed our climb.  Spartacus nodded us toward the road leading to ludus gate and I shadowed him without question; any remaining guards would likely be in the villa itself, one or two left to watch the gate of training yard.

Assumption proved true.  Spartacus and Agron easily climbed the rocks bracketing the gate and surprised their quarry.  The soldiers fell in silence.  Gate opened.  We swept through the corridors and I pushed past the memories: here was where Agron had once kissed me against the wall to cease my teasing, and here was where Ashur had backhanded me for holding my silence, and here was where Varro had squared his shoulders before being commanded up the steps to celebration.

In response to my abrupt nod, Duro ducked into the room that I had been questioned within earlier, quickly emerging with my coat and trousers.  Agron tied them securely to his sword belt for safe keeping.  I would have to wash the blood out of them whether I wore them or he held them, so it made no difference.

We ascended the steps.  Agron locked the ludus gate behind us.

The house was quiet.  The soft sounds of slave feet moving from room to room, tending to lamps and arranging beds.  Mira, Lysandros, and Vitus -- having served in this domus for years -- led us neatly and with confidence to the place where an unwilling guest might be located.

We did not reach our destination.

Running footsteps approaching, echoing--from where?

Shouts--from villa atrium!

The hiss of steel sword jerked from sheath--

Glaber’s men racing toward us from rear--

Agron roared, diving toward Spartacus’ side to meet Roman blades.  I drew gladius, taking position to guard Mira.

How many soldiers had been left in residence?  An answer we would soon discover--

_****Crash!** ** _

I flinched -- the sound of pottery striking with force and scattering-shattering upon tile.  My body remembered this noise: the right side of my face twitched.  I pushed my way past Mira, now matching strides with Lysandros as we hurried toward the clatter, turned corner--

\--and nearly slammed into a slender, dark-haired woman whose belly was swollen with child.  She clutched a golden-haired boy in her arms.  Her dress was off-center and the wild look in her eyes was one familiar to all house slaves.

“I am Nasir,” I said quickly, quietly, lowering my sword.  With the clash of steel yet ringing in my ears, I did not dare remove it from grasp.

“Nasir,” she repeated, blinked, and some of the blind shock faded from her eyes.  “Yes, I was told of you.  Where is Varro?”

“Who assaulted you?” I countered, gesturing her forward.

She shook her head.  “It is of no concern.  Please, where is my husband?”

“I--”  The sounds of battle were growing closer, fiercer, more vicious.  I thought of Agron and Duro -- there was no time!  “Condolences,” I said helplessly.

“He--he is--?”  She choked, breath crushed from lungs, swayed.

No, oh no.  I sheathed my sword and leaped forward as the woman crumbled.  I caught the boy against my chest, grabbing Aurelia’s upper arm with the other.  Without a word, Mira came forward to collect the squirming child.

“No!” Aurelia moaned, losing herself to grief, shaking her head in denial.  “No, no, no…!”

“Heed me.”  I shook her gently.  “For your son’s sake, heed me!”

She grabbed my shoulders, breath hitching.

I spoke: “We do not force you to come with us, but Varro would not wish you to remain in this house -- in the company of his killers.”

Aurelia cast gaze about, frantic, and turned from me toward Mira.  “Give me my son.”

She did and, no sooner had the child settled -- clinging and fussing -- against her hip than Duro lurched into view, blood-spattered and grinning.  “The villa is taken!  Let us move.”

I growled.  “And you saved none for me?”

He shrugged.  “You were not present.  How am I at fault for that?”

I supposed he wasn’t.  Still!  It was rather irritating to dodge all of the bloodied corpses knowing I had been denied use of sword.  Next time, I would stand in the midst of battle.

Agron claimed a kiss for his prize of victory.  I reached up to ruffle his hair.  His gaze caught on my arm and, instantly, his happy smile transformed in a grimace of horror.

Ah, he had not seen the extent of my new brand as I’d fought in the arena.  And there had not been enough light in the tunnels or cisterns.  Darkness had covered the land by the time we had emerged into open air.  The ludus corridors had been murky as always, but Glaber had made no effort to conserve lamp oil in villa’s atrium.

“Ashur,” I explained.

Agron’s hands, cradling my forearm, tensed.  His grip remained gentle even as murderous fury overtook him: his jaw clenched and nostrils flared with every breath.  “That fucking treacherous shit,” he spat.  “I will--”

 _ ** **“I will,”****  _I corrected him firmly.  If anyone deserved a few moments alone with that fuck, it was me.

“Aurelia,” I heard Spartacus murmur respectfully.  “I stood a friend of your husband’s and called him brother.  I am Spartacus.”

I glanced over my shoulder in time to see her expression shift with recognition, soften and then harden.  “You--you are the one who did this--who caused this--my husband is--Varro is--because _****you--!”****_

Spartacus offered neither denial nor excuse.  I had never known words to fail him so completely.

Varro’s wife clutched her son closer, tears spilling from her lashes.

I stood there, at Agron’s side with Duro shifting closer, and stared.  Helpless.  As I had been helpless the night before, watching ruthless and varied torments inflicted upon my friend and brother.

“Aurelia,” I spoke firmly, meeting her grief with my own.  “Come,” I invited, gesturing her toward Batiatus’ office and the balcony beyond.  Clutching her son tightly, she moved to stand at my side.  I nodded toward the flames in the distance.  Smoke and embers rose from the center of night-shrouded Capua.

“What is that?” she breathed, confused and lost and hurting.

Unclenching my jaw required full effort, but I answered: “The beginning of our revenge.”

I watched as the arena smoldered, crumbed to soot and ash.  It wasn’t Rome, no, but it was a fucking start.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Nasir does kind of “check out” mentally a couple of times. He hasn’t gotten enough rest or food or water since… um… before Atella? But he does pull it together long enough to rescue and console Aurelia. (The fresh, cool night air probably helps.)
> 
> And you can probably guess who Aurelia was running from when Nasir, Mira, and Lysandros found her, but I’ll confirm it: Ashur. Of course. I don’t plan to go into details on this, but if I did, it would go like this: Janus is asleep and Ashur tries to make a move on Aurelia; he’s distracted by the sounds of fighting; she bashes him on the head with a clay vase or something, grabs her son, and takes off.
> 
> So the arena burns. Again. I really wanted to write this into APMF because I imagine it would make Spartacus an urban legend among gladiators (and joining his cause to fight against Rome would definitely be a lot more appealing to ludus dudes after this). I totally get it if you saw this coming a mile away. I was definitely not trying to hold onto the mystery. (^_~)
> 
> Also, yes, I feel maybe a little guilty about giving Naevia's epic line "but it is a fucking start" (2x10) to Nasir and Aurelia here, but damn it, IT JUST FIT SO WELL.
> 
> DUN-DUN-DUNNNNN!!!!  
> We have arrived at the end of "And Prove More Fierce, Part 5: The Path." If you have the time and means to leave a comment for me and tell me what you've enjoyed, that would be amazing and wonderful. Questions and discussion are absolutely welcome and KUDOS 100% appreciated. (^_^)


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